


Tower Indigo

by HourlyLawyer



Series: Tower Indigo [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Thriller, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:08:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 153,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23351461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HourlyLawyer/pseuds/HourlyLawyer
Summary: The story of a man inspired by those before him to do what was right. A woman who dared to stand up to a despot. Two people who sacrificed everything to free their world from the clutches of tyranny.
Series: Tower Indigo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697839
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	1. Fall of a King

**Author's Note:**

> This story is about two years in the making, and I would be remiss if I didn't give a shout out to several people who helped make this story come alive. I am deeply indebted to FitzDizzyspells for being my amazing beta, without whom this story would largely not exist. I also want to thank Fresh for helping me brainstorm the premise and concept of the fic, and BigFatNo for being a beta for the early chapters. lindsiria, for being my guinea pig audience member and first reader. agogobell28, for helping with French culture and translation as needed. And a big shout out to two Discord communities, ##hpfanfiction and The Ginny Lovers, for providing general advice, consolation, motivation, and answering random questions I would have in the middle of the night.
> 
> The ambience and pacing of this story is generally inspired by several dystopian novels, including _Cloud Atlas_ and _1984_. (If you have read either of these books, don't worry, you won't be spoiled for anything in this fic.) Additionally, I have unabashedly stolen several quotes directly from _Cloud Atlas_ , and a couple from _1984_ too. In the interest of transparency, there are also a few references to Final Fantasy XIV.
> 
> This story is rated M for language, violence, gore, and scenes of a sexual nature.

"Thus begins the account of Indigo 9733, on the twenty-second of October, year 2049; overseen by Unspeakable Magus, identification eight three five echo lumos six five; sanctioned under the authority of His Utmost Grace, the High Chancellor of Magic, the Holiest Minister Lestrange.

"Indigo 9733, you have requested this final interview before your execution at daybreak. Minister Lestrange has, in his infinite generosity, acquiesced. Remember, this is not an interrogation or a trial. You may speak truthfully without fear of reprisal. May I ask why, after all of these years, you have finally decided to break your silence?"

"I wish to tell my story, Unspeakable."

"According to my records... well, there are none, Indigo. Your records were sealed and destroyed fifty years ago, when you first arrived here. I have to say, there are many people who are curious about the circumstances that brought you to Tower Indigo."

"Quite. I'm sure you are wondering why I'm feeling so  _ forthcoming _ this evening?"

"If I were to guess, prisoner, it is because you are about to be executed for your crimes against the country, and you wish to allay some of your latent guilt."

"Something like that."

"Very well. Proceed."

Across from him, the Unspeakable leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. The Unspeakable was hooded, as was typical, rendering his face entirely shrouded in darkness. Between the two wizards sat a dingy stone table, its lifeless grey colour seemingly absorbing the nearby light. The only things on the table were two glasses of water, a shabby eagle-feather quill, and a blank piece of parchment. Hovering above was a small crystal recording orb that glowed a resplendent white: a stark contrast to the dark motif of the rest of the room.

In each corner of the room stood a Praesix guard, wand drawn and levelled at Indigo's head. Indigo knew not to make any sudden moves; Praesix were known for cursing first, and asking questions never. That was their job, after all.

"I hope you won't begrudge me if I start with some background," Indigo said at long last, absently pushing a lock of matted grey hair from his face.

The Unspeakable gave a brief nod.

"In the summer of 1996, the Dark Lord Voldemort made an appearance at the Ministry of Magic, whereupon he and his followers battled none other than the famed Chosen One, Harry Potter. It was an embarrassing defeat. Potter, a mere teenager, fended off the greatest Dark Lord of the time with nothing to show for it but a few scratches. 

"This was the same Dark Lord that had terrorised the magical world for years. The one who commanded an army of cold-blooded killers so vicious that even the Auror force was wary of facing them; whose name people were scared to even  _ think _ about, lest some Death Eater hidden in their midst take it as a personal insult to their master. The vile wizard who had until now been believed vanquished —but had recently returned to torment the wizarding world once more.

"For the past year, Minister Cornelius Fudge had insisted that there was no Dark Lord —that it was all just a sham, a ruse put on by a manipulative old wizard and an arrogant young teenager. But Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore used that pivotal battle at the Ministry to once and for all expose Voldemort's return to the world, and more importantly, to discredit Fudge. In the following weeks, the magical community rose up with a frightening array of questions, demands, and even riots.

"In response to the increasing unrest and danger to the Aurors, Minister Fudge declared martial law. The very next day, Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, was found murdered in her own bed. As you know, when a department Head is killed in a time of martial law, the Minister has the power to choose an acting Head until normal order is restored. The power must have gone to his head, because Fudge chose Pius Thicknesse as Bones' successor.

"Furthermore, under martial law, the Minister may suspend the Wizengamot for up to two weeks —a stipulation originally granted to help prevent the Wizengamot from intentionally impeding decision-making in a time of crisis. Once the Wizengamot is suspended, all law-making passes solely through a triumvirate comprising the Chief Warlock, the Head of the DMLE, and the Minister for Magic. Therein lay the problem. At the time, Minister Fudge and Director Thicknesse were both puppets for Voldemort's cause—but whether knowingly or not, is neither here nor there."

"Forgive me, Indigo," the Unspeakable interrupted. "You believe that both the Minister for Magic and the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were proxies for the bidding of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

"I do, Unspeakable. Naturally, you are sceptical, but it is the truth. Please, allow me to continue."

The hooded wizard was still for a moment, but then waved him on.

"The first law Fudge proposed for the triumvirate vote was Wizengamot Edict seventy-three. It imposed a fifteen-year maximum term for the position of Chief Warlock. Naturally, Chief Dumbledore rejected the proposal, but Fudge and Thicknesse both endorsed it, and, when the vote is two out of three... When the edict was signed, Chief Dumbledore was immediately removed from his post, as he had retained the position for already twenty-two years.

"Normally, the onus falls on the Wizengamot to elect a new Chief Warlock. But, with the Wizengamot suspended, no action could be taken. Furthermore, Ministry bylaw dictates that if the Wizengamot can't converge on a new Chief Warlock in three days, the Minister can himself appoint one of the Wizengamot members to the post. Unsurprisingly, Fudge selected Dolores Umbridge.

"With the Dark Lord in all but nominal control of the three most powerful positions in the Ministry, the path was now clear to truly exert control over the people."

"This is all very interesting, but is it really relevant?"

"Context is everything, Unspeakable. I simply wish to provide some background. I hope that this adequately sets the stage for the political environment of the time; for the gross misdeeds, however innocuous, that had already taken root in society; for the world that we were forced to live in. Now, my story truly begins."

#

"Is that really Potter?" He pointed at a spot near the end of the Gryffindor table. A mop of unruly, jet black hair framed the boy's face, and he wore a small pair of wire-rim glasses with circular lenses. He was currently joking around with a brunette witch and a pair of redheads —probably brother and sister, given the matching set of freckles and blazing near-orange hair.

Next to him, Zabini looked up from his plate and gave the slightest hint of a frown. "Yeah, that's him. Dumbledore's golden boy, the Chosen One, and all that bollocks. Or maybe Britain's next Dark Lord, according to the  _ Prophet _ . Why do you care, anyway?"

"As I've already said, Father and I have just moved here from Brazil. Obviously, I am not as familiar with British current events as you would be, having grown up here," he said stiffly.

"Really? The news of Harry Bleeding Potter hasn't spread around the world by now?" the dark-skinned boy asked acidly. "I find that hard to believe."

"I'm not surprised you consider Britain to be the centre of the world. After all, that is quite an arrogant point of view to hold."

Zabini stared at him evenly before quickly glancing toward the High Table. It seemed that more than one professor had taken some interest in their conversation. With a tinge of annoyance, the boy leaned forward and spoke in an undertone: "Don't confuse arrogance for cognisance."

"What's with your hair? Do all Brazilians have white hair?" the girl across from him asked. Bulstrode was her name, if he recalled correctly.

He sighed, not for the first time wondering if he should have chosen a different hair colour. Reflexively, he swept the shaggy hair from his eyes, but otherwise ignored the question.

"And where's your Brazilian accent?" she added.

With a shake of his head, he responded, "My family is actually British; we just moved to Brazil when I was two years old, so I speak English natively. My mother died four years ago, so it's just Father and me."

"Oh no," Davis said with what might have been concern in her voice. "How unfortunate, you."

#

"'You'?" the Unspeakable asked dryly. "What is your name, Indigo?"

"A name is but a manner of address. Just as I call you Unspeakable, you call me Indigo 9733. Is that not sufficient?"

"Surely you don't want to be known as Indigo even in your fondest of memories."

Indigo arched an eyebrow but otherwise stared impassively back.

"Indulge me, if you will."

"I... was not born with a name," the grizzled man finally responded after a moment of silence.

"Then what did people call you?"

"Ezra. They called me Ezra."

#

"Ezra Rowe, I presume," the stocky man exclaimed, shaking his hand with surprising vigour. "Welcome to Hogwarts! It's quite a shame that you could only experience it for your final year, but, better late than never!"

Professor Slughorn led him over to a round wooden table that was set with a beautiful collection of what looked to be Egyptian crystal.

"Those are courtesy of my great uncle," a girl to his left responded to his unspoken question.

"Allow me to make some introductions. Blaise Zabini," the Potions Professor gestured with a hand to the boy seated across from him, "whom I'm sure you've already met. His mother, the regal Vitoria Zabini, has amassed quite the wealth over the years, eh?" At this, Zabini just smirked.

"Melissa Pratchett," Slughorn nodded to the girl that had spoken up earlier. "Her great uncle is a renowned archaeologist in Egypt. Did you know that he founded the British Curse-Breakers Guild?"

A slight cough was the only thing that betrayed Ezra's disbelief. "Renowned archaeologist" sounded dubiously close to "tomb raider." His father had known several men of that ilk; frankly, they were not pleasant people.

"Hermione Granger," he pointed to the curly-haired witch whom Ezra had seen hanging out with Potter. "The absolute brightest witch I have ever had the pleasure of working with —and that includes Lily Evans!" he said with a chuckle, and a not-quite-apologetic nod to Potter, seated next to her. "And a Muggle-born at that. How incredible, outstanding..."

A Muggle-born, really? She certainly didn't carry herself like a pure-blood, but he would have assumed that she was at least half-blood. What was more surprising was that she was absolutely lauded by Slughorn, a pure-blood himself. Muggle-borns were by definition disadvantaged in the magical world —and in a magical school—because they didn't have the proper upbringing that a magical family could provide. That she was here at Slughorn's request was certainly a testament to her intelligence.

"...and this, of course, is Harry Potter, who needs no introduction," Slughorn was saying. Ezra had zoned out and missed the last few introductions, but he was sure he'd find out who these people were eventually.

"Esteemed guests, this is Ezra Rowe. His father, Sasha Rowe, of the eponymous Morrison & Rowe, invented the Disillusionment Charm."

#

"Did he really?" asked the Unspeakable, who leaned forward in apparent interest.

"He did, in 1971. My family became moderately wealthy from the royalties incurred. Every time a book or a newspaper wanted to print something about the spell, they had to pay Father for the right to do so."

"I see..." he muttered, but did not continue that line of questioning. Instead, he picked up the quill in front of him and briefly scribbled something in a cryptic script. "Tell me, Indigo —what did you think about Harry Potter?"

"Well..." he started hesitantly, "I wasn't sure what to think anymore. According to my house-mates, Potter was an arrogant fool who couldn't tell a Pygmy Puff from a Blast-Ended Skrewt. According to the rest of the school —and the media—Potter was a renegade hellbent on taking over Britain. But my impression of him from the Slug Club... I didn't interact with him much that evening, but from what little I did, he seemed quite reserved; almost shy. Not what I'd expect in a 'rising Dark Lord.' I can't speak to his intellect at that point, but he certainly was no dunderhead. And he carried himself with some amount of poise that I couldn't place. As if he knew exactly what he was doing and how to get it, even if he didn't let on.

"He also seemed rather cosy with Slughorn. Given what I had observed in him, I wouldn't have expected him to be terribly tolerant of the evening's agenda, let alone enjoy it so much. Maybe he was just glad to be there with Granger —or maybe he had some hidden agenda with Slughorn. I don't know." He gave a half-shrug.

"You said you didn't interact with him much 'that evening.' Did you interact with Harry Potter at other times?"

Ezra ran a calloused hand through his scraggly, grimy hair.

"Yes. The Slug Club met monthly, and Potter was always in attendance. The other students rotated in and out, and Granger was almost always there —but Potter never missed a single one.

"Over the months I feel like I got to know both Potter and Granger reasonably well. Maybe not as friends, but perhaps as acquaintances.

"I learned that along with their friend Weasley, the three of them had gotten into their fair share of trouble over the years. I learned that, even though Weasley and Granger were good friends, there was an intangible tension between them that only seemed to ease when Potter was around. I learned that Granger and Potter were close enough that many thought it was a romantic relationship. Whether they were or not, I never cared to find out.

"But one day, I also learned that my choice of acquaintances was... controversial."

#

"It's nearly curfew," Potter said with a slight frown as he approached the pair.

Ezra broke off from his explanation of the Disillusionment Exaptation and Granger looked disappointed at the interruption. A quick glance around the room confirmed that most of the other students had left by now.

"You coming, Rowe?" Zabini called from the doorway. Zabini and Ezra had recently settled on a shaky alliance that couldn't necessarily be called a friendship, but it was something close.

"Go ahead, I'll catch up."

The other Slytherin shrugged and left.

"Well, I'm sorry our discussion was cut short," Ezra said to the girl. "I'm sure I'll see you both around."

"Gryffindor tower is on the way to the dungeons," Potter hesitantly offered after a brief glance to his friend. "You can walk with us, if you'd like."

Even Ezra knew that the Gryffindor dormitories were decidedly not "on the way" to the Slytherin dormitories, but he accepted the olive branch for what it was.

As they made their way across the castle, Ezra and Granger continued their conversation as Potter quietly listened with mild interest. Just as they reached the portrait of the Fat Lady, the frame swung open and the body and voice of Ronald Weasley emerged.   
  
"There you are! I was wondering when you'd get back. It's almost curfew, and —" It wasn't until then that the redhead noticed the presence of a third person. His jaw dropped slightly, and he stared for a moment before regathering his composure. "What's going on?" he asked in a tight voice.

"I was just walking back with them," Ezra responded, voice smooth and, hopefully, placatory. At Weasley's blank stare, he added, "From the Slug Club..."   
  
But that was apparently the wrong thing to say, as the Gryffindor clenched his jaw tightly. "He's in the Slug Club too?" he asked tonelessly. "Neither of you said anything?"

"Well it's not like you've ever asked," Granger snapped back, crossing her arms in front of her.

Weasley clamped his mouth shut and stared at the girl, then turned his attention to Ezra. Finally, he snorted and shook his head, throwing his hands up in the air. "Looks like Slughorn'll just invite anyone nowadays. A right bloody big party, isn't it."

With that, Weasley turned around and climbed back into the common room, slamming the portrait behind him which elicited a cry of surprise from the portrait's single, rather rotund occupant. "Really, now. That is quite rude, young man!" the Fat Lady grumbled.

"Sorry about that," Potter muttered contritely, rubbing the nape of his neck. "He didn't mean anything by it. He's a good mate, just..."

"...not a huge fan of Slytherins?"

"Something like that."

Ezra understood how it was. The Gryffindors had good reason to hate the Slytherins, and vice versa. Both houses had antagonised each other for so long that it was impossible to escape the vicious cycle. 

"Good evening, Granger, Potter," he said with a final nod to the two Gryffindors.

He swiftly made his way toward the dungeons. It was surely past curfew and, while he had no qualms about breaking rules as necessary, it paid little to do so when avoidable. As he turned the final corner before reaching the Slytherin dormitories, he nearly ran straight into his Head of House.

"Mr Rowe. It is quite fortunate that I was watching where I was walking, because clearly, you were not."

"Professor Snape, I apologise."

"It is...", Snape waved his wand and it glowed a series of colours, "eight minutes past curfew. May I ask what activity you were participating in that caused you to neglect curfew? Or perhaps you've forgotten how to cast a Tempus Charm?" The professor stood unmoving, hands clasped behind his back; clearly in no hurry.

"I was just getting back from Professor Slughorn's get-together," Ezra responded with a carefully-sculpted mask of aloof indifference.

"Is that so? Zabini arrived nearly fifteen minutes ago. Perhaps he simply has longer legs. Or maybe you got lost on your way back, hmm?"

Without another word, Snape shot him a final suspicious look and swept past him, cloak billowing in his wake.

Ezra quickly walked to the end of the corridor, spoke the password —" _ Cedo nulli _ " —to the bare stone wall in front of him, and slipped inside.

"Well, look what the squid dragged in," an arrogant voice drawled from the ebony-carved sofa by the fireplace. Crabbe and Parkinson flanked Malfoy on either side, with Goyle, Zabini, Davis, and a few other upperclassmen discreetly observing the altercation from their various positions around the common room. "Oh, it's just Rowe. And ten minutes past curfew, to boot."

"Oh," Ezra gasped. "I'm sorry,  _ Professor Snape _ . I didn't recognise you with your student scarf and pompous god complex."

"Clever, but at least I'm not fraternising with Gryffindor vermin."

Ezra nearly groaned. He cast a glance at Zabini who shrugged as if to say,  _ What else could I do? _

"Really, Rowe?" Malfoy continued. "Have you learned nothing?"

"I've learned many things, Malfoy, the first of which is that your moral compass is perfectly calibrated —backwards."

"Make all the pithy remarks you want," Malfoy said lazily, wand loosely twirling in his hand. "Your  _ association _ with blood traitors —worst of all, Potter and the Mudblood—besmirches the name of Slytherin house, and I will ensure that the purity of this house is kept intact."

"You know, I think you're just angry that Potter and Granger are part of an exclusive club that you weren't invited to. Though, maybe you would have been if your father hadn't been caught with his pants down at the Ministry of Magic. I wonder —being a Death Eater and all."

The blond jumped up and let loose with a Slashing Hex that Ezra was just barely able to block —mostly. The tail end of it had cut across his arm, severing the robe there and leaving a nasty gash in his bicep.

"You had better watch yourself, Rowe," the boy hissed. 

"Excuse me if I don't heed the threats of a person with more money than sense."

The two Slytherins glared at each other in silence, each waiting for the other to make a move. Finally, Ezra broke off with an exhaled breath, and retreated to his room.

Four days later found Ezra trudging through the crunchy snow back to the castle. He had been at the Quidditch pitch, not because he was an avid flier, but because the empty stands provided a secluded place to think. A place where he could get out of the castle, clear his head, and avoid the incessant interruptions from others.

As he approached the steps to the entrance hall, he saw Granger and Potter approaching from the opposite side of the Hogwarts grounds. When they were within shouting distance, Granger waved at him, and the three of them quickly converged on the steps.

"What's going on?" Potter asked.

With a nonchalant shrug, Ezra responded, "Just wandering. What were you two doing?"

"We were —"

"Just wandering," Potter interrupted the girl with the barest shake of his head. The Gryffindors shared an unreadable look.

An uncomfortable silence stagnated in the air, until Ezra decided it was his turn to speak. "Malfoy was quite displeased at my 'fraternising' with Gryffindors. Especially you two." Granger opened her mouth to say something but he waved her off. "I owe you both an apology —especially you, Granger."

"How so?" Potter asked, head tilted in curiosity. Granger was uncharacteristically silent.

"Much like Weasley did —does—to Slytherins, I judged you both before I even met you. Potter is certainly not the pretentious fool I first believed him to be. And Granger, I assumed at first that you couldn't have been Muggle-born; you were too skilled, too intelligent to not have magic running in your family's blood. Obviously, I was wrong, and it was an inappropriate generalisation for me to force onto you."

With that, Ezra turned and entered the castle, leaving a bewildered witch and wizard in his wake.

#

"So, you maintained your  _ d _ _ étente  _ with the Gryffindors."

"I did. In fact, I'd like to think it evolved into something a bit less clinical."

"And I'm sure Mr Malfoy didn't take too kindly to your rebellion, so to speak. Did he ever make good on his threats?"

"He tried. And occasionally he even succeeded —I do have a rather nasty scar on my back that never healed properly... But with all said and done, I was able to largely spurn his untoward attacks. It also helped that most of the other Slytherins were quite neutral to me, so they rarely aided him in his feeble endeavours."

He once again surveyed the room around him. By this time the Praesix had relaxed and lowered their wands from his head, but they had otherwise maintained their positions in the corners of the room. Indigo took an unhurried sip of water from the glass in front of him, and continued.

"By the time April rolled around, Death Eater attacks had drastically increased —both in frequency and ferocity. Nearly every day,  _ The Quibbler _ brought news of villages newly-razed, Muggles tortured, children raped and slaughtered, politicians kidnapped... all over the country."

" _ The Quibbler _ ?" asked the Unspeakable with what Indigo imagined was an arched eyebrow.

"It was a wizarding tabloid. The Ministry had tried to shut it down but every time they raided the printers, they had mysteriously disappeared and reappeared in a different part of the country. Anyway, the  _ Daily Prophet _ , as you know, was owned by the Ministry, so its journalistic integrity couldn't exactly be trusted.

"By far, the overwhelming majority of the attacks were against Muggles and Muggle-borns. It was an incredibly difficult time for any Muggle-born, or really any Muggle-sympathiser —because the question was no longer, 'Has my family been attacked?' Instead, it was, 'Has my family been attacked  _ yet _ ?'

"In response, the Ministry, in its endless altruism," Indigo started, voice oozing with caustic sarcasm, "passed the Wizarding Protection Act."

#

"This is... This is..." Granger sputtered.

Ezra snapped his head up from his Potions assignment ("Discuss seven ways in which belladonna can positively react with a Class II diagnostic potion"). He had never heard the witch actually speechless. Apparently neither had Potter or Weasley, as they both instantly focused their attention on the girl as well.

He and Potter moved behind her to look over her shoulder, while Weasley huffed and leaned in from beside her. The four of them read the front page of the  _ Daily Prophet _ in silence.

_**Minister Fudge Vows to Protect Wizarding Britain!** _

_ In response to numerous concerns brought to his office, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge has taken a bold and proactive step to ensure the safety of all magical inhabitants of Britain. Certain disadvantaged wizards and witches, such as Muggle-borns, are naturally more vulnerable to dangerous criminal activity without the means to defend their families. However, the Ministry of Magic recognises that all Magical Beings* are equally deserving of life. As such, Minister Fudge, fully backed by the Wizengamot, has passed the Wizarding Protection Act. _

_ Effective immediately, every wizard and witch over the age of ten is to register his or her magical status with the Ministry of Magic. Registration is simple: the wizard or witch need only provide his or her wand for examination, a list of Locations** where he or she may be found throughout the year, and a drop of blood to confirm blood status. The Ministry will provide a token confirming registration; this token should be kept on hand at all times. _

_ The Department of Magical Law Enforcement will use this information to position law enforcement units in the most optimal locations in order to provide the best possible protection against criminal activity. _

_ * For a list of Ministry-approved Magical Beings, see pg. 26 _   
_ ** For a list of Ministry-approved Locations, see pg. 32 _

In the centre of the page was a large picture of a presumably-Muggle family surrounding their teenage daughter, who was shaking hands with a smiling Ministry representative. In her off hand, the girl was holding a dingy token up for the camera. It was a dull brown, slightly bigger than a Galleon, with illegible white text inscribed on it.

Dazed, Ezra could only slump back down into his seat. Granger was gripping her quill so hard that it finally snapped, spraying a few splotches of ink onto the library table. In the meantime, Weasley had taken the paper in his own hands and was reading through the article again. When he had finished, he caught Potter's eye behind Granger's back and gestured toward her helplessly. Potter, in turn, cringed and shook his head.

"Hermione..." the redhead said carefully. 

"...unbelievable!" she finally snapped out, wayward sparks flying from the broken quill she was still holding. "Do they really expect us to gobble up this rubbish? The  _ Prophet _ has been censoring any news about Death Eater attacks for the past month. Why would they suddenly decide to admit it now with a promise to protect Muggle-borns? No," she hissed, "the Ministry doesn't give a damn about Muggle-borns."

She pulled out her wand and reflexively vanished the spilt ink drops, but in her ire accidentally flicked it just a bit too hard, causing her entire ink bottle and essay to disappear as well. She didn't seem to notice.

"But who's going to stop them? Everyone seems perfectly content to accept our slow decline backwards toward Hitler's and Grindelwald's ideal, tyrannical society. So be it. But I refuse to take part in this charade," she said while tying her hair up in an angry ponytail. "Mark my words. This is nowhere near the end of this 'wizarding protection' nonsense."

With a wave of her wand and a muttered spell, the newspaper was set ablaze. Ezra watched as yellow flames quickly spread across the surface of the parchment, which slowly shrivelled up in the heat. The last thing visible before disappearing into a pile of ash was the smiling face of the Muggle-born teenager.

#

_ To Whom It May Concern, _

_ I am writing to you today because I fear for the safety of not just me, but of all of my friends around me, as well as the rest of the student population at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. _

_ Just yesterday, I overheard two of my classmates talking about the new Wizarding Protection Act. One of them said that even though she is a Muggle-born, she refuses to register herself to the Ministry. I don't know who she was, but I think I heard her friend call her "Granger." _

_ I understand that by registering their status, Muggle-borns can help prevent evil criminals from attacking them and those nearby. I am worried for this student's safety and for that of Hogwarts as a whole. Please do something about this travesty. _

_ Thank you for your time, _   
_ Draco Lucius Malfoy _   
_ Arrogant Prick with a God Complex _

#

"Really. Is that how he signed the letter, Indigo?" the Unspeakable asked with what sounded almost like a snort.

"I would like to think so. But how should I know? I wasn't there."

"Then how did you know he wrote the letter at all?"

"You will find that I'm telling this story from a rather unfair point of view, Unspeakable. After all, I have the advantage of hindsight."

#

Flanked by a squad of marching Aurors, the short, balding man strutted down the craggy rock road. Rocks crunched under their feet and wildlife was sent scurrying as one determined man and eight resolute guards made their way toward Hogwarts.

"Halt," the man ordered upon reaching the wrought iron gate.

As one, the Aurors came to a stop, drawing their wands and standing at attention.

"Aurors, remove this obstruction."

The eight personal guards spread out and began to fire a mix of Blasting Curses, Reductor Curses, Disintegration Charms, and Tunnel-Boring Hexes at the gate; to no avail.

The man's eyes narrowed dangerously, and he raised his wand to release a red spark which launched high into the air, then exploded into a dizzying net of fireworks.

Nearly ten minutes later, a large —very large—man appeared, panting as if he had just run across the Hogwarts grounds.

"Good af'ernoon, sorry 'bout the wait," Hagrid started. "I was teachin' a class on the other side of the castle, see. What can I do fer yeh?"

"Rubeus Hagrid. Please open this gate."

"I'm sorry," said Hagrid with a frown, "but I can' open the gate without Professor Dumbledore's permission."

"Listen here, half-giant," the wizard said with no little frustration. "I am Pius Thicknesse, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I order you to open this gate."

"I already told yeh, I can' open the ruddy gate," the half-giant responded impatiently.

The short man pulled a scroll from his coat pocket and unrolled it, shoving it against the gate for Hagrid to see.

"I am here to arrest a student for failure to abide by Ministry law. Under the authority of the Minister for Magic, I demand that you open this gate immediately!" he snarled.

Hagrid's eyes roved over the arrest warrant, and once he got to the bottom of the parchment, he scowled and stared at Thicknesse with unbridled anger.

"Rubbish, the lot of it. I don' care who yeh are, yeh're not welcome. I ain' gonna —"

"THEN BRING ME THE DAMN HEADMASTER!"

Hagrid looked at the man as if he were strongly considering simply ignoring him, but he eventually turned and slowly made his way to the castle.

When Dumbledore finally arrived at the gate some fifteen minutes later, Thicknesse was fuming. "What took you so long? I've been standing here for almost half an hour!"

"My apologies, Director Thicknesse. It is quite a busy day at Hogwarts today. What can I do for you?"

"Dumbledore, open the damn gate."

"Headmaster Dumbledore," the old wizard corrected.

Thicknesse looked absolutely murderous. "Headmaster Dumbledore," he ground out through his teeth, "Please open this gate."

"Very well, Director Thicknesse. May I ask what is the occasion?" he asked jovially.

The man handed the scroll over to Dumbledore, who slowly read through it. He narrowed his eyes and turned a fierce glare back to the man.

"You wish to arrest one of my students?"

"Yes. She has been found in violation of the Wizarding Protection Act, and we are here to rectify this issue posthaste. The warrant has been signed by the Minister for Magic, so I will ask you one final time to open this gate before I have you arrested for treason."

"Treason?" the headmaster asked with an eyebrow arched. "Surely you have confused 'treason' with 'obstruction of justice'?"

"I have not." With a smirk, Thicknesse pulled a second scroll from his pocket and unrolled it, handing it to the headmaster as well. "Per Ministry Edict one hundred and fourteen, refusing to cooperate in any way with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement now constitutes treason."

"That is quite extreme, Director Thicknesse, even for you. But, alas, whereas I can disagree with the law, I cannot repudiate it."

Thicknesse smirked and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "No, you cannot."

"Unfortunately, we seem to have... hit a snag," Dumbledore said, as if discussing strategies to care for a tomato garden.

"And why is that?" Thicknesse hissed, face quickly turning white with ill-disguised rage.

"As headmaster, I am required to act in the best interest of my students. I do not believe it is in the best interest of my students if you were to arrest one of them for no reason other than as a wanton display of flagitious power. Therefore, I cannot in good faith release my student to the Ministry."

"I've had it with your games, Dumbledore. I am formally charging you with treason, and you shall accompany me to the Ministry immediately. Gregson, call the Curse-Breakers —and Cornelius."

Dumbledore's smile dimmed, but he continued as if he had not been interrupted.

"Furthermore, as Hogwarts is a sovereign entity, the Ministry has no authority on these grounds. Violating the sanctity of these grounds is a violation of the Charter. And I can assure you, Director Thicknesse, that you do not want to violate the Charter." Dumbledore's expression quickly turned dark. "Please leave the premises at once, before I have to remove you by force. Good day."

With that, Headmaster Dumbledore turned and slowly walked back to the castle.

#

"I told you," Granger muttered darkly as she tossed the newspaper to Weasley. He read it, grunted, and passed it to Potter.

As he read the paper, Potter's eyes hardened. "Blimey..." Grinding his teeth, he handed it to Ezra.

_**Minister Fudge Doubles Down on Promise to Protect Britain!** _

_ In an effort to improve wizarding safety and security across the country, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge has, with the full approval of the Wizengamot, passed the Wizarding Security Act. In the interest of improved disaster response and mitigation, all wizards and witches shall now wear Ministry-approved sashes over their robes at all times. For the sake of simplicity, each sash shall be marked according to blood status. _

_ To facilitate this effort, you may pick up your complementary Ministry-approved sash in the lobby of the Ministry of Magic. Additionally, for your convenience, registration tokens are no longer required to be carried on your person. _

_ Your peaceful cooperation will allow law enforcement units to easily locate and secure higher-risk individuals in large crowds of people, increasing the efficiency with which law enforcement units can operate in a time of conflict. With your help, we are well on our way to rebuilding a peaceful magical Britain. _

"Shall I?" Ezra asked.

At Granger's nod, the Slytherin flicked his wand, setting the paper ablaze.

#

He was at dinner, absently listening to Davis argue with Greengrass about who would look uglier as a transfigured Chimaera, when it happened. A high-pitched screech tore through the air, oddly reminiscent of that one time Peeves had dragged an ancient ornamental chandelier against the Charms classroom's blackboard. The screech was closely followed by a rapid  _ whoosh _ and then a deafening explosion that rocked the very foundations of the Great Hall.

After a stunned silence, the Great Hall suddenly erupted in a deluge of shouts, yells, and screams, as the students —and faculty—tried to decipher what was happening.

"SILENCE!" Professor Dumbledore shouted, his normally-gentle voice magnified hundredfold by magic. "Please return to your seats. There is no need for alarm." 

But the headmaster himself did not at all appear relaxed. In fact, quite the opposite: the expression on his face was downright murderous. In a swift motion he rose from his chair and strode down the middle of the hall towards the entrance, with Professor McGonagall at his right side. Like the rest of the faculty —and Granger—neither wore a sash, and because of this stood out even more as they briskly traversed the hall. But as they reached the centre of the hall, the great wooden doors exploded inward, eliciting panicked screams from the students nearby who ducked in a feeble attempt to avoid the debris that flew towards them at nearly the speed of sound. Faster than the eye could see, the headmaster raised his wand and conjured a shimmering blue bubble to capture the flying shards of wood. With a twist of his wand, the bubble shrunk down to the size of a pebble and then it, along with the imprisoned debris, blinked out of existence.

A few Gryffindors, clearly under the impression that Hogwarts was being attacked, hopped up and fired a wave of Stunners into the roiling wall of dust that shrouded the entrance. The spells disappeared into the cloud of smoke and immediately reemerged, apparently having been reflected back to their casters. The return Stunners flew far faster and stronger than the originals, slamming into the offending Gryffindors before they could raise their own shields. Flitwick squeaked, and he and Madam Pomfrey rushed to tend to the fallen students.

And then, once again, all eyes turned to the now-decimated entranceway. Emerging from the dust strutted a man —clad in a black silk robe and a royal purple sash around his waist—who Ezra couldn't quite place. He seemed familiar, but he wasn't sure why. The man's face was twisted in fury, and he carried himself with an air of grace, command, and above all, arrogance.  _ Maybe he's a Malfoy _ , he idly wondered.

Flanking the man was a battle guard of eight grim-faced Aurors, and behind them marched an additional battalion of Aurors, four abreast. As each rank emerged from the smoke, they split into two columns of two and snaked along the perimeter of the hall. Ezra couldn't count how many there were, as they just kept coming and coming, and they didn't stop until the entire Great Hall was surrounded by an army of unfathomable red. There must have been over a hundred Aurors, each standing at attention, unmoving and unsmiling.

"Hermione Jane Granger!" shouted the arrogant man in the middle, apparently unclear who she was or where she was sitting. "Under the authority of the Minister for Magic, you are hereby under arrest for wilful and wanton evasion of the Wizarding Security Act."

Ezra's eyes widened and his heart skipped two beats.

"Like bloody hell she is," a furious voice instantly shot back.

Ezra snapped his gaze over to see Weasley, who now stood by Granger and Potter, glaring daggers at the Ministry official. The Gryffindor's face was splotched with red, and he fervently gripped his wand so tightly his fingers were white.

"Ron — _ Ronald _ ," the girl hissed, pulling on his arm sleeve until he reluctantly sat back down.

It was evident why she had been singled out —the absence of a brown sash around her robes was rather conspicuous. He watched as Potter put his hand on his friend's shoulder, a stony expression on his face. Granger whispered something to Potter, but otherwise, neither made another move. 

Far down the Slytherin table, Ezra saw Malfoy smirk and mutter something under his breath, eliciting guffaws from Crabbe and Goyle.

"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore! Under the authority of the Minister for Magic, you are hereby under arrest for high treason."

A collective gasp swept through the hall as the students tried to parse what the man had just said.

"Director Thicknesse!" the headmaster roared, eyes blazing with tumultuous rage. Electric blue sparks danced up and down his beard and jumped into the air around him. Small waves of magic rippled through the hall, chilling the air and dissipating against the wall of Aurors. "What is the meaning of this?"

"You know full well why I'm here," Thicknesse responded with a piercing stare. "Surrender Miss Granger, and yourself, at once. Furthermore, three of your students have attempted to assault my Aurors, and by extension,  _ me _ —a crime punishable by death. Gregson, Pells, secure those criminals."

The two named Aurors stepped forward from their positions behind Thicknesse. In response, Dumbledore drew his wand, threateningly stepping between the Aurors and the Gryffindors. No hint of kindness or patience shown in the headmaster's expression.

"Guards," the director said simply.

Together, eight bolts of lightning screamed from the guards' wands toward the headmaster. Without a word, he raised his wand, erecting a brilliant orange shield so thick that it was nearly opaque. The lightning bolts were redirected upward with a resounding  _ CRACK _ , slamming into the ceiling far above them with no small explosion. As large chunks of the ceiling began to fall, McGonagall caught them and banished them before they could hit the students below.

"Please do not insult me by having your guards do your dirty work," the headmaster said darkly. But the effort of blocking the barrage of curses had clearly taken a toll on him.

"Don't force me to lift my wand, Dumbledore. I assure you, it will be the last poor decision you ever make."

"No, Director, it is you that has made the poor decision. You have violated the wards of this establishment. You have trespassed on sovereign land, bringing armed militants onto the grounds of my school. You have injured my students." 

By now, Dumbledore's eyes had dropped to a frosty azure, and his voice had been reduced to nearly a whisper. But his words were crystal clear to everyone in the room.

"Minerva, please seal the Great Hall."

"Of course, Headmaster," Minerva responded. She raised her wand, and with an incantation Ezra couldn't hear, the witch slowly waved her wand in a circle above her head. The candles high above them started to glow brighter, flames growing unopposed until each was the size of a Quaffle; then, the unnaturally large candle flames jumped to the four walls and tore downward until reaching the floor, whereupon the entire set of walls flashed yellow.

Where the large opening used to be now appeared a continuous expanse of brick matching the rest of the Great Hall's decor. It appeared that the occupants of the Great Hall were now trapped.

"What is the meaning of this, Dumbledore?" Thicknesse shouted with a hesitant glance behind him. "For the last time, I order you to lay down your wand before I must resort to lethal force!"

"Director Thicknesse," the headmaster spoke with what sounded almost like... pity. "You, and the Aurors you have brought with you, have violated the Hogwarts Charter. For that, you shall pay the consequences. As Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I hereby invoke the Excisement Condition!"

"Oh my God," Granger exclaimed, clamping her hand to her mouth.

Dumbledore raised his arms above his head, and his whole body began to glow a resplendent white. Suddenly, a flash of light went off, momentarily blinding every person in the Great Hall.

Ezra squeezed his eyes shut; when he was finally able to re-open them, he saw —nothing different.

"Aurors, lethal force!" screamed Thicknesse.

" _ Avada Kedavra _ !" over a hundred voices shouted simultaneously. A chorus of shouts, curses, and screams filled the air as students desperately attempted to shield themselves or duck for cover under the tables. The entire Great Hall was in disarray. Ezra dropped to the ground as soon as he could, but he knew it was far too late to avoid the spells cast by the Aurors just behind his back.

But Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall calmly stood, unmoving, in the centre of the Great Hall, waiting for the chaos to come to a pause. And eventually, it did.

Ezra peeked through a squinted eyelid to hazard a look around. Most of the Aurors he could see were looking at their wands in various states of confusion; a few of them were still attempting to cast various spells, but to no avail. He looked toward Thicknesse, who was also staring at his own wand in disbelief.

"Dumbledore, what have you done?" he croaked, eyes wide.

"The consequence for violating the Charter is permanent forfeiture of your magic. Congratulations,  _ former _ Director Thicknesse. You are now that which you have always despised. Minerva, please escort these enemy combatants from the grounds of my school."

The stone barrier dropped away, revealing the charred and door-less entrance once again. As McGonagall marched the Aurors and Thicknesse out, Dumbledore turned to face the students and professors around him.

"Students of Hogwarts, listen carefully to me. Please remove your sash and place it on the table in front of you." He waited silently as hundreds of confused students, and quite a few indignant ones, finally followed suit. "Now take out your wand —and incinerate it. No one at this school shall play a part in the Ministry's pathetic and transparent attempt to ostracise a part of this community."

With that, their headmaster turned and exited the hall, vanishing into the cloud of dust.

#

"Fourteen hours later, Pius Thicknesse was found dead. He had allegedly committed suicide —a Severing Charm to the jugular."

Neither man spoke a word for quite some time.

"How did the students react to the whole debacle?" the Unspeakable finally asked.

"Potter —well, Potter seemed to change that night. He became almost depressingly serious. I still talked with him on occasion but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. More than once I caught him staring at me—or maybe through me—with a dull, almost haunted expression.

"As for Granger... She was a lot of things. She was flabbergasted. Excited. And... worried. Flabbergasted that Dumbledore had enacted the Excisement Condition of the Charter and quite literally stripped over a hundred wizards of their magic. Never before had that happened in the history of Hogwarts. And to see it happen before your very eyes... it was incredible, and terrifying. Exciting, in its own way. Exciting to see the Ministry overstep their bounds so egregiously, only to have it backfire on them.

"One evening, when Granger and I were studying for an Arithmancy quiz, she admitted that she was terrified. Terrified that one day the Ministry would get to her, whether they arrested her in Diagon Alley or stormed her house and killed her. Terrified for her future. For her parents. It's... it was a tough situation to be in."

Indigo's carefully-maintained facade wavered just a bit. Enough for him to have to pause, gathering his thoughts. Enough for a speck of moisture to well in his left eye.

"It sounds like you were becoming friends," commented the Unspeakable.

"We were. But then..." Indigo trailed off with a slow shake of his head.

"But then what?"

Indigo shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

"What changed?" the Unspeakable pressed.

"Lord Voldemort was killed. And with him, Harry Potter."


	2. Into the Lion's Den

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for your time! I'm really hoping you enjoy this chapter (and the next ones!). In the interest of transparency, I won't be leaving many A/Ns on the chapters so as not to interrupt the flow of the fic too much, but I genuinely appreciate every read, kudos, and review!

Hermione trudged down from the castle to the greenhouses near which the funeral was to be held. She slowed to a stop and looked around briefly. Clenching her eyes shut, she allowed herself to take a deep breath before approaching the security booth. 

"Wand, please," the young Auror requested in a bored monotone. 

With a scowl she pulled her wand from her robe and handed it to the man. After casting a spell on her wand, it briefly glowed red.

"Your sash, please," he asked in the same exact tone as before.

"I beg your pardon?" asked Hermione, hands on her hips. Plenty of other students weren't wearing their  _ Ministry-approved _ sashes, but as everyone knew, the Ministry really only cared to enforce the policy for the Muggle-borns.

"Miss, you are not wearing your official sash. Please —"

"Auror Jamison," a tired voice interrupted from behind her. She turned around to see Professor Dumbledore standing a scant few feet back, leaning quite heavily on a cane. "It is quite uncouth to be disturbing these innocent people, at a funeral no less. Perhaps you would be more comfortable helping guests find their seats?"

The young man, Jamison, paled and took a step back. "Um, yes —of course, Headmaster. Here you go, Miss." He handed the wand back to Hermione, and after a fleeting glance back to Dumbledore, he hurried away.

"Thank you, Professor," she mumbled. "How are you doing?" She motioned at the rather ornate cane, which seemed to be carved from dark oak wood. Rune etchings wound their way up the staff until disappearing under the ivory handle. Quite a fitting instrument for Albus Dumbledore.

"Physically —well, as well as can be hoped. The battle did not go how I expected, but... it could have been worse." To her surprise, the corners of his mouth crinkled into a slight smile.

"' _ Could have been worse _ '?" she snapped, momentarily jumping out of her despondent mood. "Harry —Harry  _ died _ that night, and all you can say is 'it could have been worse'?" She wiped an angry tear from her cheek.

But the rational part of her knew the headmaster was right, even if the emotional part didn't agree. It could have been far worse. For one, Voldemort could have survived. And her best friend's sacrifice would have been for nought.

She released a hollow laugh. As if it had meant that much anyway, all things considered. Lord Voldemort had been destroyed and yet the Ministry took advantage of the situation to vilify Harry. The day after the attack, the  _ Prophet _ 's front page article wasn't about Voldemort's fall, no, it was about "The Boy-Who-Formerly-Lived" with his "troubling, anti-wizarding ideals" and his "blatant disregard for Ministry-approved magic."

_ "With the downfall of You-Know-Who and the unexpected demise of Harry Potter, Wizarding Britain is finally free from the threat of a ruthless tyrant." _

What utter rubbish.

The worst part was that she had been  _ surprised  _ to see the article. Why should she have expected the Ministry to act any differently after the fall of the most evil wizard of the era? After all, control of the Ministry remained in the hands of Minister Fudge, Chief Umbridge, and Director Rookwood; with Lucius Malfoy and doubtless others pulling strings behind the scenes.

Hermione finally tore herself from her inner monologue and noticed with a start that the headmaster was watching her with troubled eyes.

"I'm sorry, Professor, you're right. It's just... the whole situation..." 

"There is no need to apologise, Miss Granger. Your reaction is perfectly reasonable. Besides, it is I who should apologise; I only wish that we did not have to resort to such drastic measures."

She responded with a stony look.

"If I may add —I see you've forgone your sash, even amongst Ministry personnel. That's a curiously dangerous decision."

After Professor Dumbledore had ordered the burning of the students' sashes, most had reacquired them from the Ministry for use after leaving Hogwarts —all except her. Needless to say, the Ministry had been most unhappy with the headmaster for that stunt.

"You're not wearing yours either, Professor," she responded sharply. "You can hardly disapprove..."

"Oh, I didn't say I disapproved, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said with just the slightest hint of twinkle in his eyes. "Merely that it was dangerous."

With that, the old wizard limped off.

She stamped down a flash of anger at the reminder of the Ministry's asinine interference. They wanted to alienate the Muggle-borns and the half-bloods, and it seemed everyone else was willing to lay back and take it.

Hermione clenched her jaw until she could feel her teeth start to ache. She refused to give in to the Ministry's ridiculous demands —she would not sink to that level. She didn't know the full path ahead, but she was sure she would figure it out in time.

But first, she had to get through this funeral.

#

The sun cast its warm rays of light onto the Hogwarts grounds, and the light breeze swept through the grass and trees, causing them to gently sway in the wind. Songbirds celebrated the coming of summer, and plants of all colours and sizes flexed as if to show off to their neighbours. Even the Giant Squid seemed to be caught up in the moment, basking on the surface of the lake with its tentacles spread wide to absorb as much sun as possible.

_ And it's all a sham _ , thought Ezra. A mockery of the circumstance that had brought hundreds of witches and wizards together on this day. The funeral of Harry Potter, the boy who had given his life to defeat You-Know-Who —Voldemort, even. A boy who, on one hand, he hadn't really gotten to know that well; but on the other hand, felt like he had understood in and out.

With teeth clenched together, Ezra sucked in a deep breath with the hope that it would help stem any tears from falling. If the other Slytherins saw him like this...

He glanced over to Granger and Weasley, who sat on opposite ends of a row of chairs near the far side of the small clearing. Both of them stared forward, expressionless, refusing to show any emotion. Every so often, Granger's eyes would briefly flicker toward Weasley, and she would sniff at his lack of reciprocity.

After several minutes of this, she suddenly swivelled her head and caught Ezra's gaze. She pursed her lips and immediately turned her head back to the front.

Ezra sighed.

Fudge was currently at the podium giving some inane speech about worthy sacrifices. What would Fudge know about sacrifice? Nothing. The man hadn't ever had to sacrifice a damn thing. Ezra had. Dumbledore had. Potter had. Hell, even Voldemort had —for very different reasons, yes, but they were still sacrifices.

Who knew what Potter had had to sacrifice to bring about the end of the Dark Lord's reign of terror? Only one person knew, and it definitely wasn't Fudge.

But Ezra took solace in the fact that, in a way, Potter wasn't really gone. His body was, perhaps. But his spirit lived on in those around him.

#

As he dragged himself toward the castle, he neared one of the gazebos that had been set up for the service. From within, he heard the bickering voices of Granger and Weasley.

"...then what are you going to do?"

But Ezra couldn't make out the rest of the hushed conversation, and he didn't want to risk coming closer lest they notice him. Eventually, both Gryffindors fell silent and stared around uncomfortably. Then, with a final, hollow glance at the witch, Weasley slowly shook his head and retreated to the castle.

Granger despondently watched as Weasley fled from the gazebo, but soon her eyes slid over to meet Ezra's gaze. Her face hardened, but she approached him forthwith.

He cringed; this was not something he wanted to deal with right now.

"E —" she started, but upon seeing his steel expression, she composed herself and adopted a more neutral mask. "Rowe."

That was the first time she'd ever addressed him by surname.

"You —you shouldn't be here," she said with a tremor in her voice, and unshed tears in her eyes. "You don't belong here. Please... go."

He stared at her wordlessly before finally whispering, "I'm sorry."

With a final, almost pleading look at the brunette, Ezra stumbled back, desperate to put some distance between them.

Then, with lead in his legs, he turned and ran.

#

"That must have been difficult."

Indigo stared at the wizard with an indecipherable look on his face. "It was."

"Do you think you belonged at his funeral?"

"I... don't know. Most of the people there didn't. Most only knew Potter as the boy who vanquished the Dark Lord; nothing more. As for me... well, if I'm to be perfectly honest, no. No, I don't think  _ anyone _ there belonged at the funeral."

"Do you know why Miss Granger was suddenly so cold to you?"

"I could only guess. It could have been any of a dozen reasons. Her best friend had just died —sacrificed himself for a world that didn't even believe in him. Hell, if I were in that situation, I'd be livid. Listen: she prided herself in her logic, her rationality, her objectivity; but she was human, with the same emotions, positive and negative, that all other humans are subject to.

"In a way, I was glad that she'd turned cold on me. It gave me time to think critically about my relationship with Potter, Granger, and even Weasley."

"On the topic of Mr Weasley: what was his dispute with Miss Granger?"

Indigo stilled for a moment, apparently lost in thought, before speaking with a soft, tight voice. "He... He felt like he couldn't be as close to her without Potter around. In a way, Potter had been the linchpin in their triangle of friendship. Without him, the wheel would rotate around the axle just fine —but sooner or later, it would fall off; Weasley wasn't willing to take that risk.

"Maybe he reasoned that it wouldn't matter too much anyway, given that it was the end of our seventh year. We would all be going our separate ways, separate careers..." he trailed off. "I don't know."

"Did you have your career path planned out? Following in your father's footsteps, perhaps?"

Indigo seemed to ease up at the prospect of a safer topic of discussion.

"Most of the seventh years had already decided what they wanted to do once they graduated, but I still hadn't been sure. I had been considering becoming a spell researcher, like Father, but... well, it just isn't an exciting walk of life. Strangely, the funeral made something 'click' for me. You know that cliche where something happens to a person and the person immediately knows what they want to do with their life? It was almost like that. Father always told me that any split-second decision is a bad one. With that in mind, I waited a few days to make sure it was really what I wanted to do. It was."

"...and? What did you decide?"

"I was going to become an Auror."

"An —an Auror?" the Unspeakable asked in disbelief.

"Yes. I was to become that which I despised. The power-hungry enforcers of our country's freedom-quelling laws. The arms and legs of the Ministry's oppressive, twisted, quasi-totalitarian regime."

"But... why?"

"Why? Because I saw what Potter selflessly gave for a world that didn't deserve it one bit. I wanted to make a difference, like Potter —and I needed to be the change that I wanted to see in the world. What better place to do that than from within the very Ministry that had turned that world upside-down?"

"A noble gesture, if any," commented the Unspeakable.

"Gestures do not beget change, Unspeakable Magus —actions do."

"But every action starts with a gesture, no matter how small."

Indigo huffed, but didn't otherwise respond. Eventually, he resumed his soliloquy.

"I was fortunate. With the fall of Lord Voldemort, the Ministry had immediately begun an active recruiting spree, ostensibly in preparation for the reconstruction of society after the war. They all but dropped the stringent requirements that had classically starved the Auror department of trainees. I had sufficient marks anyway, but up until that point, they never would have accepted a new recruit without at least three months of examinations and paperwork. As it were, I was to begin training at Aurum Vale in just two days."

"What about Miss Granger?"

"Unsurprisingly, she knew exactly what she wanted to do, long before anyone else did. When she told Potter and me, she made us swear not to tell a soul... but I suppose, given the circumstances, I can let you in on the secret. She was to become the youngest professor in the history of Hogwarts. Headmaster Dumbledore had decided that it was time to retire; Professor McGonagall would assume the role of Headmistress, leaving the position of Transfiguration professor open. Who better for it than the girl who probably could have taken her Transfiguration N.E.W.T. blindfolded and mute?"

"Who better, indeed." The Unspeakable reached for his glass of water and took a long sip from it. "Please, tell me about Aurum Vale."

"My experience at Aurum Vale... it was a large part of what made me who I am today. And it set into position the pieces of the game that I played over the next fifty years of my life: the game whose sequence of moves ended up bringing me here to Tower Indigo.

"I hope you don't mind a long chapter, Unspeakable. I cannot do it justice otherwise."

#

"Welcome to Aurum Vale! For the next four weeks, this will be your home. You will train here, eat here, sleep here, and suffer here. I bet you're relieved that Director Rookwood has condensed Auror training from twelve weeks into four, but I assure you: what I lack in time, you will make up for in sweat, blood, and tears.

"I am your caretaker. I care about you. I care for each and every one of you wannabe Auror cadets during your time on this shit-hole of an island. I don't expect your very best. I expect more than your very best. I expect your unending, undying, unceasing attention from this very moment until the glorious day that I never have to see you again. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Caretaker!"

"You are not Aurors. You are barely wizards. You are dangerous, wand-waving children sent here by my superiors to try my patience. Well, I'll let you in on a little secret: my patience has already worn thin. And when it snaps, I won't take it out on any one of you. I will take it out on all of you. And if you cannot deal with me, you are of no use to me. Any delinquent, arrogant shit-for-brains can apply to be an Auror —but only some of you have the physical, magical, and mental fortitude to succeed.

"I am impartial: you are all equal in my eyes. I don't care what school you're from, what colour your skin is, or who you like to fuck. I don't care if you're a Mudblood, a half-blood, or a real wizard. You are all equally worthless."

Ezra narrowed his eyes and shifted, thankful no one could see his face under his hood.

"You may be wondering why I've asked you to wear your hoods up this evening. It is to reinforce my point. It doesn't matter who you are. It doesn't matter who the people beside you are. The only thing that matters is that each of you aspires to be an Auror."

A thoughtful silence passed through the thirty-five cadets gathered. Ezra hazarded a glance around. Everyone wore plain brown robes, soaked through with the rain falling overhead so as to appear almost black. Oddly enough, they had also been instructed to leave their sashes behind tonight. Every hood was drawn up, preventing him from seeing anyone else's face; though it was so dark he wasn't sure if he'd have been able to see their faces anyway. It was quite eerie.

"It's late," their instructor said. "You've been standing out in the rain for quite some time, and I'm sure you're tired and cold. Are you tired and cold, cadet?" he asked, quickly closing the distance between him and one of the trainees standing in the front row.

"Uh, yes," was the mumbled response.

"Yes,  _ what _ ?"

"Yes, Caretaker!"

"What about you?" he glared at a different cadet.

"Yes, Caretaker!"

"So let's get your blood running," he nearly shouted with an enthusiastic grin. "We'll do some jumping jacks to get us started. Come on, do as I do." The man jumped up, spreading his arms and legs before landing. Then, he jumped again, pulling his arms down and bringing his legs back together. The cadets just looked at each other, unsure what the man was doing.

"NOW, you worthless sacks of rubbish! It won't kill you —it's a Muggle exercise. What they lack in sensibility they make up for in methods of physical torture."

Amidst scattered grumbling, the cadets started to mime the Caretaker's movements. After just a few minutes of this blasted jumping, Ezra was gasping for breath. This was certainly not in his daily regimen. He had been in much better shape before seventh year, but had neglected doing just about anything physical during the past months. 

After what felt like years of needless jumping, the Caretaker ordered them to halt. Ezra gladly complied, dropping to his hands and knees, huffing and puffing.

"What the arse," someone muttered behind him amidst gasps.

"What about now? Is anyone still tired and cold?"

"No, Caretaker!" the squadron shouted back —some more coherently than others.

"Then you won't mind going for a bit of a run, then?"

"What...?" a rather tall and thin cadet mumbled, apparently a bit too loudly.

The Auror instructor marched up to the offending wizard and grabbed the front of his robe, nearly pulling him off the ground. "Are you deaf, confused, or retarded, boy?"

"No, sir... I'm just surprised."

"And why is that?" the man hissed.

"I mean, running? Really? I'm a wizard. Why should I expend my energy chasing someone down if I can just as easily incapacitate him?" the boy responded in such a haughty tone that Ezra was sure he was smirking.

"Ha!" the Caretaker bellowed, releasing the boy's robes from his grip. "You've got spunk. Tell me, do you think you could take me in a fight?"

The cadet hesitated. "My mother taught me how to duel; she is quite a formidable duellist."

"A very political answer. Yes or no?"

"I wouldn't turn down the opportunity... sir."

His response once again elicited a laugh from the instructor. "Tell me, which pocket do you keep your wand in?"

"Up the left sleeve of my robe, Caretaker."

"Really?" the Caretaker responded, apparently impressed. "Would you draw it for me?"

In a seamless motion, the cadet drew his wand from within his sleeve and assumed a duelling stance. Immediately, the Caretaker reached out and yanked the wand from the boy's hand, subsequently barrelling a large fist into his stomach. 

The hooded recruit fell to the ground whimpering. The Caretaker stared at the downed wizard who was clutching his stomach, gasping for air.

"Do you still think you could take me?" the large man asked with a glint in his eyes.

He turned to the rest of the squadron. "Let this be a lesson to all of you despicable Flobberworms. Aurors don't have  _ duels _ . Aurors  _ fight _ . You aim to incapacitate, maim, or kill —in whatever way necessary. All of you, draw your wands and hold them over your head."

Ezra hesitated but with a resigned sigh followed the lead of the others around him.

With a flick of his own wand, the Caretaker summoned thirty-four more wands to him, whereupon he (somehow) deposited them in one of the pockets of his robe.

"Good. We won't be needing these for awhile, anyway. Now, is anyone else  _ surprised _ ?"

"No, Caretaker!"

"Good. Line up and follow me."

#

Soaked, aching, and downtrodden, the thirty-five cadets trudged into the barracks behind the annoyingly enthusiastic form of the Caretaker. "On the double, get your arses in here! My God, you all look like shit. Sit down, you worthless sad-sacks, before you puke all over my floor or something."

Ezra gratefully dropped to the hard concrete floor and leaned against the steel frame of the bunk behind him. He didn't know why he'd signed up for this. He could be in his bed right now, dreaming about... whatever it was he usually dreamt up —he couldn't even think properly right now. But no, he was here, half-dead from what must have been an hour-long run in the middle of a wretched downpour.

"And take off those idiotic hoods, you can't hide your ugly faces forever. May as well get to know the people you'll be screwing over when you bugger up a simple group Shield Charm."

Arm shaking from exhaustion, Ezra pulled his hood back, revelling in the fresh air that was now exposed to his face and neck, but also feeling oddly bare. He glanced around at his squad-mates, momentarily surprised when he saw more than a few female faces. In hindsight, it shouldn't have come as a surprise —after all, the Auror force had its fair share of witches, and they had to go through the same rigorous training as the rest.

As he swept his gaze over the assembled cadets, he recognised several students from Hogwarts. And then — _ blimey _ . Nearly across from him sat Ronald Weasley. His blazing red hair slumped down, matted and sweaty, and his face lacked any of the colour it usually had —but it was undoubtedly him. When their eyes met, Weasley tiredly stared at him until Ezra broke off.

He had no idea Weasley had been planning on joining the Auror force.

"Introduce yourselves," the Caretaker directed. "Your name, your blood, and why you're here." He pointed toward a mousy, blond kid who was currently shivering but trying not to show it.

"I'm Simon Appleby, pure-blood. I'm here because certain members of society need to learn their place, and as an Auror I can help with that."

The Caretaker nodded and gestured to the girl seated next in line —she had her dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail and was attempting to squeeze the water from it.

"Yetta Yaxley. Pure-blood," she said, rolling her eyes as if there were no other acceptable answer. "I want to be an Auror so I can avenge my father who was unjustly murdered last year."

_ Yaxley, as in, daughter of Corban Yaxley? _ Ezra wondered. Corban Yaxley had been a high-ranking Death Eater, and a quite vicious one at that. If he had been killed last year, then good for him: "unjust" couldn't be further from the truth. He scowled.

"Franklin Freshenstein VI," said the pallid boy seated next to Yaxley. "Pure, through and through."

"What the hell kind of name is that?" the Caretaker interrupted. "Are you one of those queers from Texas?"

"No, sir. But my father's family is American, yes."

"Holy Horntails, what a disgrace. From now on, you're known as Fuckenstein. Next?"

"My name is Zacharias Smith; pure-blood of course," the arrogant Hufflepuff started. "Naturally, I had my choice of career paths after Hogwarts, but I decided to go with the one where I could do the most good."

Ezra had to bite the insides of his cheeks to avoid saying something he'd probably regret.

"Ronald Weasley."

Ezra snapped his head back to watch the Gryffindor, who seemed to hesitate before continuing.

"I want to help the Ministry rebuild society after the war."

With a slow exhale, Ezra stared once again at Weasley, eyes hard. This time, Weasley was the one to look away. He would need to talk to him later tonight.

Pansy Parkinson (pure-blood, what else?) was next to introduce herself, followed by a Leonard Rosier. Ezra didn't need to hear their ridiculous justifications to know they were hokum.

It was his turn. With a measured gaze straight ahead, he whispered, "Ezra Rowe. Pure-blood. I will become an Auror so I can wrong the rights in this world."

At this, Theodore Nott snorted from his left.

What was disconcerting was that every single Auror cadet thus far introduced had been pure-blood. That is, until they got to...

"Damien Hughes; I'm half. Mum is a Muggle, Father is a wizard."

Thirty-four heads swivelled at this revelation, not at all to Ezra's surprise. After all, most pure-bloods weren't exactly known for their tolerance of their "lesser" wizarding counterparts. 

What did surprise him, even if it shouldn't have, was the Caretaker's reaction. The Caretaker's face tightened, grey eyes hardened, and jaw clamped shut. Clearly, he was not as  _ open-minded _ as he had claimed.

The other introductions held little interest for him. A few other Death Eater offspring; several Hogwarts graduates; a couple foreigners; but still only one non-pure-blood.

When the last cadet (Angela something-or-other) had finished, the instructor hopped to his feet.

"That's the last of them, then? Alright, you worthless ponces. It is incredibly late —I suggest you get what little sleep you can. We start at 0400 tomorrow, outside on the quad."

"Uh, Caretaker, sir?" one of the girls asked. Razia Lovell, if Ezra recalled correctly. "Where do we sleep?"

"What the hell are you on about, cadet? We're in a barracks. Claim a bunk."

The redhead appraised the room with her mouth clearly poised to say something, but before she could say it, the Caretaker interrupted her.

"Oh, I understand. The female barracks —how could I forget!" The wizard smacked his palm to his forehead as if he'd forgotten something obvious. "Listen up, ladies: to get to the female barracks, close your eyes, and then open them. You're here.

"I'm sure it can be scary having to sleep with icky boys around, Lovell, but you'll just have to power through." The sarcasm oozing from his voice belied his ostensibly kind words.

"No, sir..."

"I'll tell you what, Lovell. Why don't you pick the first bunk, to make sure it's in a  _ safe _ location from these dangerous, lurid boys."

She shook her head, eyes on the floor. "I don't need —"

"Attention, squad! Miss Lovell will be picking the first bunk. Once she has decided where to sleep, everyone else may choose their bunks."

With a resigned glare at the wizard, Lovell pointed to the lower of the bunks next to her.

"We're not in school any more, cadets. I will not segregate you by your gender any more than I would segregate you by your hair colour. You are a squad of hopeless rubbish. But this squad of hopeless rubbish will train together, eat together, fail together, and sleep together." Terry Boot snorted from the far corner of the room, but apparently the Caretaker did not hear him. 

"Am I absolutely clear?"

"Yes, Caretaker!"

"Are you tired, or dead? Speak up!"

"Yes, Caretaker!"

"What the fuck was that? I still can't hear you!"

"YES, CARETAKER!"

"Admissible," he grumbled. "I'll see you in four hours. Oh, and leave the sashes —they'll just get in the way."

As soon as the Caretaker left, Weasley locked onto Ezra. Oblivious to the multiple sets of eyes following him, he rushed across the room and pounced on the Slytherin, pinning him up against the rack.

"Are you mad? What the bloody hell are you doing here?" he growled.

"Get —off me," Ezra gasped as he tried to pry off Weasley's hands from his neck.

"Having a right house party with your pals?" he said hotly, jerking his head over to where Nott, Parkinson, and Cartwright were chatting.

Ezra finally got a good grip on the boy's hands, loosening them from his neck and then pushing him back momentarily.

"What's gotten into you?" he hissed back, eyes narrowed. "And they're not my  _ pals _ ."

"Could've fooled me. Last thing we need is more Slytherin Aurors —"

Ezra jumped forward, gripping Weasley by the collar of his robes and slamming him against the wall behind him. "Shut up! Slytherin this, Slytherin that, it's all you can talk about, isn't it? At least I'm not betraying  _ my  _ best friend!"

The redhead paled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Really? What would Granger think if she knew you were here?"

Weasley yanked himself free and brought a swift fist careening into Ezra's face, sending him staggering.

"Don't even talk about Hermione," he said in a low voice. "You have no idea..."

"Selling out to the people who've done all they can to make her life hell," Ezra continued as if he hadn't heard the other boy.

"You're one to talk, oh high-and-mighty bloody hypocrite. Don't try to guilt me about her when you're doing exactly the same."

Ezra stared back with dark eyes. "But I'm a Slytherin, remember? Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?"

The redhead ignored the comment and quickly stepped forward, closing the small gap between them. "And don't  _ ever _ touch me again."

Ezra silently rubbed his aching jaw as Weasley retreated to his bunk.

#

_ Beep, beep, beep. _

With a moan, Ezra grabbed the lumpy, threadbare pillow and pulled it over his head, trying to muffle the screeches of someone's blasted watch.

_ Beep, beep, beep _ —

"Turn it off," he slurred amidst the irritated grumblings of several other cadets.

"It's three forty-five," a sheepish female voice responded. "We're supposed —"

"Then shut up, I've got fifteen minutes..." mumbled Parkinson.

_ Beep, beep _ —

Ezra jerked awake again. Had it already been fifteen minutes? He groaned, but it instead came out as an embarrassing cross between a whimper and a sob.

A bright flash of light tore through the room, and he instinctively opened his eyes in bewilderment, only to be met with a colossal wall of water surging down from the ceiling. The ice-cold water was fire to his skin, searing it if only for the brief moment that it entirely enveloped him.

He rolled to his side, coughing violently, trying to dispel all of the water he'd just inhaled. Around him, he heard varying degrees of wheezing, shouting, and swearing as the entire squad tried to recover from their encounter with a magically-conjured tsunami.

"What the bloody fuck part of 0400 did you not understand?!" a deep voice boomed from the entrance to the barracks. "Get your arses front and centre. NOW!"

The cadets were a flurry of limbs as they half-fell out of their cots, struggling to arrange themselves in two lines. Once he was standing at attention in front of his bunk, Ezra surreptitiously glanced around. Most everyone stood shivering, arms hugged tightly to their bodies in a desperate attempt to keep warm, or perhaps to offer a modicum of modesty despite their various states of undress. Many of the more  _ affluent _ pure-bloods sported elegant, though now probably ruined, pyjamas; likely either Acromantula silk or Thestral hair. One boy was even wearing a robe. Damien Hughes —the half-blood—and Ezra himself were the least-dressed males, wearing only boxers, though one witch was similarly in just her undergarments.

"What time is it, Cartwright?"

"It's four-oh-two, Caretaker," Ezra's former house-mate responded with her chin raised.

"And I suppose that's good enough, isn't it?"

"No... sir."

"Morning drill is at 0400. That's four AM for you retards. Not three fifty-eight, not four-oh-one, and most bloody certainly not four-oh-two!" he screamed, spittle landing on Appleby's face. "Do you understand?"

"Yes —"

"No, you bloody well fucking don't! You waste my time, I waste yours. For every minute you're late, that's a minute of running —"

Ezra silently released the nervous breath he'd been holding.

" —per cadet. Two minutes late, times thirty-five cadets... I'm no Arithmancer, but this morning just keeps getting better and better. Now, move out!"

Ezra turned around to grab a pair of trousers but was stopped by a beefy hand gripping his arm.

"Are you lost, Rowe? The door's that way," the instructor said with a thumb pointed back over his shoulder.

"No, sir, I'm just getting my trousers."

"No time for that," the Caretaker barked, "we're on a very busy schedule." He turned to face the rest of the group. "Let this be a lesson to all of you —be prepared to wake up fighting. A criminal won't give you time to put your trousers on, so why should I? Let's go! Finley, you too!"

Ezra growled and followed the burly wizard from the barracks.

"Nice knickers, Finley," he heard Nott say behind him. "And a set of knockers to go along." A few of the boys laughed.

"Get stuffed, arsehole," the petite blond shot back. This was immediately followed by a muffled crash and a litany of swears from the Slytherin.

After a long and incredibly arduous run through the nearby forest, the squadron, led by a disgustingly-jubilant Caretaker, arrived back at the field where they had first gathered the evening before ( _ just a few hours ago _ , Ezra thought with a frown). With a moan, Ezra followed the lead of the others, dropping dead to the ground for a brief reprieve from the chaos. Unsurprisingly, those arriving behind him followed suit. Though he was by no means in shape, it seemed that neither were most of the others, so compared to the rest of the group, he felt that he was at least physically in a pretty good position.

Collapsed on the water-logged, muddy grass, Ezra heaved in deep breaths. Face-up to the eerily starless sky, he was not at all concerned about the droplets of rain that assailed his face, eyes, and mouth. Even the fact that he was only wearing boxers no longer bothered him, nor had it after the first few minutes of their "adventure" this morning. In fact, the cool mud on his back, the revitalising rain on his chest; it was refreshing. In a way, it was almost peaceful, beautiful —sensual. If he could just ignore the fact that he was at a four-week-long torture session.

Slowly, he rolled over to his side, coming just about face-to-face with Irene Finley. Like him, she was covered nearly head-to-toe in mud, which at least made her exposed skin far less salient to the casual (or not-so-casual) observer. But unlike him, she was visibly shivering; her eyes were shut, neck clenched, and he could hear her teeth chattering. He felt rather bad for her: for the past hour, she'd had to withstand snide remarks from the Caretaker, unabashed glares from the other girls, and conspicuous ogling from the boys.

Glad they were still under the cover of darkness, he slowly reached out and touched her arm. "Finley?"

She flinched back and opened her eyes. "What?" She carefully asked, her voice startlingly neutral.

Ezra couldn't read her expression, so he continued after a brief hesitation. "Are you okay?"

The girl stared at him and jerkily shrugged as well as one could while lying down on their side.

"What's this, a larvae convention? Get up, you sodding louts."

As the cadets regretfully pushed themselves to their feet, the Caretaker waved his wand, bathing the field in a dim, blue light. His mouth quickly adopted a grotesque grin. "Half-blood Hughes!" he shouted, throwing a wand at the boy's head. "Stun me."

Hughes stared at him, mouth agape, evidently just as surprised as everyone else. "Sir?" he spluttered, still trying to catch his breath.

"Stun me, cadet. Go on. Or are you too  _ tired _ ?" he asked mockingly.

The boy raised his wand arm in front of him, but wobbled from the exertion, mild though it was. His aim wavered, but he clearly incanted, " _ Stupefy _ !"

Their instructor guffawed as the Stunner flew wide. Some mere fifteen metres separated them, a distance at which any semi-competent wizard could accurately cast a spell, yet Hughes was wide off the mark. Ezra couldn't blame him —he doubted he himself could do much better at the moment.

With a snarl, Hughes re-cast the Stunner, and then another; both shared similar fates to the first. Several of the other cadets laughed and jeered at the boy's poor aim, and the Caretaker joined in for a moment before redirecting his attention to Zacharias Smith.

"What's so funny, Smith?"

All laughter instantly ceased.

"What sort of half-baked imbecile applies to be an Auror if they can't even handle a wand?" Smith sneered.

Hughes made a move for the boy, but was held back by Lucian Olaru, a Romanian boy who had taken a year off before applying for the Auror force.

The Caretaker appraised the half-blood and the pure-blood for a moment. "Okay, Smith," he finally said. "What do you think his problem is?"

"I don't know, poor upbringing?" Several snickers echoed from around the squad.

"No, not this time. It's because you're weak, Hughes. You can barely stand straight after a measly little run, much less control the aim of a delicate spell. You're  _ all _ weak; it's pathetic. But don't fret —Daddy will make sure you grow up big and strong. Don't you want to be big and strong for Daddy?"

"Yes, Caretaker!" a slew of voices half-heartedly replied.

"That's no way to address your daddy. Try that again."

"Yes, Daddy!" 

Ezra fought to keep down the bile.

"That's what I like to hear. Time for your daily dose of some good old-fashioned press-ups. Everyone, on the ground! Clearly you're good at that already."

Ezra thankfully sank back to the muddy grass, and then turned his head to see two cadets —Piers Kresdon and Franklin Freshenstein—who were still standing. The pair of wizards shuffled uncomfortably, and, unfortunately for them, earned the acrimonious attention of their instructor.

"I'm sorry, are you waiting for a map? The ground is down there," the burly wizard said with a dangerous gleam in his eyes, using his middle finger to point straight down. 

"I want my wand," Freshenstein eventually belted out, expression cold but composed. Kresdon nodded beside him.

"Get. Your arses. On the ground," the Caretaker hissed with a glare that could have extinguished Fiendfyre.

"I refuse to writhe around on the ground like some sort of deplorable Mudblood —imagine what my father would say about this." This time, it was Kresdon who spoke.

"Now give us our wands," Freshenstein repeated. " _ I _ can stun you quite handily, unlike Hughes."

Ezra wanted to look away from the inevitable arse-kicking, but he couldn't; his eyes were glued forward. He wasn't sure what the two boys thought this would accomplish, but certainly nothing in their favour. Beside him, Finley appeared to be having similar thoughts.

But the Caretaker's delayed response surprised him —and everyone else, for that matter.

"You want your wands, Fuckenstein? Alright then." He reached into his pocket, retrieving the two wands, and handed them over.

Freshenstein opened his mouth to say something, but the Caretaker interrupted him.

"Now get out."

"Pardon?" Freshenstein muttered.

The Caretaker grabbed them both by the front of their shirts, pulling them to him. "If you can't handle a bit of exercise, you're already a waste of my time. Now get the FUCK off my island," and with that, he shoved them backwards, knocking them arse-first to the ground.

Before either wizard could react, the ground began to rumble and two massive plants sprung from the ground with a large  _ squelch _ . Each had two comically oversized, bright red flowers attached to its stem (stalk? trunk? Ezra was no Herbologist). The flowers were shaped like inverted domes, with dangerous-looking spikes protruding from the rims, and each looked to weigh some five or six stone.

The plants extended the flowers out, almost as if they were stretching. Then, with an anticlimactic  _ puff _ , each plant swiftly brought its pair of dome-flowers in, engulfing either of the recently dismissed Aurors-to-be-not. The entire squadron watched in silence as the plants fled in the direction of the barracks with their hostages in tow.

"Would anyone else like their wand?"

No one responded.

"That's what I bloody well thought. Now listen, and listen closely. I don't care for your back-talk. I don't care for your complaints. I don't care for your excuses. When I tell you to move, you move fast. When I tell you to run, you ask how long. When I tell you to get on your hands and knees in the ground, you fucking embrace the mud as your new lover till death do you part. Is that crystal fucking clear?"

"Yes, Caretaker!" the remaining recruits screamed.

"I feel bad for you weak sods, so we'll start with ten press-ups and call it Bob. On my count —begin!"

Thirty-three witches and wizards bent their arms at their elbows to descend to the ground, and then shakily pushed themselves back to their starting positions, to varying degrees of success.

"That's one," the Caretaker announced.

Again.

"Two. Get your arse down, Rowe!"

And again.

"No, stop. Those aren't press-ups, Ambrose, those are fuck-ups. Start over!"

A wave of grumbling swept through the squad, and they started anew.

"One."

Ezra's arms were already shaking. How in the world the Caretaker expected them to do this, he had no idea.

"Two."

The mud made it difficult. His hands were slowly sliding outward and he had to keep re-positioning them under his shoulders.

"Eh —two and a half. Finley! Get those perky tits all the way to the ground—don't try to con me!"

After the next press-up, the instructor marched over to stand between Ezra and Finley, glaring down at the girl. "Did you dress like a whore so you can fuck over your entire squadron, Finley? Or were you hoping to distract me with your salacious figure?"

"No, sir," she choked, clearly attempting to keep the emotions off her face.

"I bloody said, get all the way to the ground!" With this, he put his boot on her rear and pushed her forcefully into the mud. "You better start liking that position. Start over!" he roared.

They started again.  _ At this rate _ , Ezra thought despondently,  _ we'll all be dead by sunrise _ .

"Cadet Robbins! Are you a fucking Squib-like?"

"No, sir," the Scottish recruit wheezed.

"A homo? You're sucking someone off?"

"No, sir."

"Do you sexually identify as a Highlander witch?"

"I don't, Caretaker."

"Then why the bloody hell are your knees in the dirt? PICK THEM UP! Merlin's bloody bollocks, people. Ten press-ups is all I ask. Ten measly press-ups."

A staggeringly painful ten minutes later —or was it a half hour? Two hours? Ezra wasn't sure if he was cognisant enough to accurately judge—they finally finished their "ten" press-ups.

"Congratulations, cadets. You are just barely not quite as worthless as I thought you were."

Was that a compliment? No, probably not.

"Do you feel strong yet?"

"Yes, Caretaker," they half-mumbled, half-wheezed.

"Rubbish! You're all liars. But better a liar than a quitter, eh?" he asked, obviously referring to Freshenstein and Kresdon.

"You all look hungry. Mess hall is that way." He pointed a thumb over his shoulder to a grey building in the distance.

Ezra's mouth watered in anticipation of his first meal in twelve hours. Weasley looked just as excited.

"I expect you back here at 0900. Cartwright!" He looked pointedly at the girl. "You seem to know how to read a watch. I'm making you responsible for your fellow imbeciles."

"Yes, sir," the Slytherin muttered.

"Don't fuck up."

The exhausted group of witches and wizards turned and slowly trudged toward the grey, lifeless building under the watchful gaze of the recently-risen sun.

"Oh, and by the way: Rowe, Hughes, Finley —put on some fucking clothes!"

Ezra and Finley stopped and looked at each other. Ezra's mouth twitched, and he thought he saw her mask falter for a moment. She shifted on her feet with an unreadable expression, and then said, "I'm going to shower and change. See you later, Rowe."

With that, she turned and left in the direction of the barracks.

#

Even now, small pockets of cadets were already emerging from the cohort of young adults, indicating rough alliances, or perhaps just groups of people with mutual interests.

Elspeth Pilkington had already gathered a small following of fan boys obsessed with her every move; among these, Ezra noted, were Rosier and Appleby. She was admittedly quite attractive: her slender figure complemented her long, chestnut hair that was swept into a ponytail, and her blithe expression carried an easy smile that made Ezra wonder if that morning's exercises had even phased her.

Braxton Hale donned a similar, but opposite, role to Pilkington: clearly physically fit, with a well-chiselled jawline and wavy brown hair to his shoulders, he struck quite the handsome figure. He was clearly charismatic as well, as he'd already garnered the attention and Yetta Yaxley and Alison Scarlett, to name a few.

The Death Eater relatives had unsurprisingly clumped together, with Nott, Lestrange, and Parkinson leading that particular train wreck. Weasley and Zacharias Smith had also become unlikely pals, tagging along with Oliver Sturch and a few others. Terry Boot had somehow managed to integrate himself with the "foreign" crowd —Moreau, Nettleton, and such.

Off to his side was a group of girls which included Cartwright (the Caretaker's new timekeeper, apparently), Lovell, and a few others, including the twins whose names Ezra just couldn't remember.

The group was mostly silent as they dragged themselves to the Mess, with the exception of Rosier's complaints to Pilkington about how he hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday. She didn't seem to be listening.

Upon arriving at the Mess, Weasley plonked down on the nearest bench and ordered a fry up. When nothing happened, he frowned and repeated his request, to no avail. 

"Oh for Merlin's sake," Sturch yelled from across the room. All eyes turned to him. There, on a worn-down wooden table that looked to be on its last legs, sat a brown sack full of oats and a large vat of water. "You've got to be joking."

"What is that?" asked Parkinson.

"Oats and water. The old berk wants us to make our own porridge. Guess I'm not surprised," Sturch said with his eyes narrowed.

"Bollocks, I don't even have —does anyone have their wand?" Ambrose asked the group. "How are we supposed to cook it?"

"How the hell should I know?" said Sturch with a sneer. "Ask the Halfsie, I bet he knows. Isn't this what Mudbloods do all day?"

"Shove off, Sturch. You lot are pathetic, there's a stove right there." Hughes shouldered his way to the front and amidst more than a few glares, quickly got the porridge cooking.

Ezra sat by himself, lethargically eating his bland-as-dirt porridge. It had been a tough battle between his fatigue and his hunger, but the fatigue had won out. He doubted he could eat any faster if he tried. Finley had not yet returned, so he had no one to talk to —if she would want to talk to him at all. But that was just as well; he was content to sit and observe the others.

Pilkington seemed to be telling a story and her entourage was hanging onto every word. At the adjoining table, Weasley was uncharacteristically ignoring his food —and Smith—while he listened to her, occasionally chuckling at something she said. That said, to call this "food" was a bit of a stretch, so maybe Weasley really did have his priorities straight.

The Romanian kid, Olaru, sat with Hughes, the half-blood. They were both outcasts in their own way, he supposed. For whatever reason, Olaru didn't seem to get along with the "foreigners plus Boot" crowd, so he'd found a friend in Hughes.

Jarrett and Vance sat at the far end of the Mess, whispering to each other while alternately casting furtive glances towards the girls and shooting brief glares to the boys sharing Pilkington's table.

Most interesting to Ezra, however, was the fact that Taran Robbins sat alone in the furthest corner possible from the crowd. The boy's face was set in a resigned expression and he poked sporadically at his food. Eventually, he rigidly rose to his feet and deftly made his way around the tables —avoiding the other cadets as possible—leaving the Mess Hall through the side door.

It was only then that Ezra noticed the slowly-emptying room. Several cadets had left for the barracks already, presumably to shower and nap; a few others had cut out the middleman and were sleeping on top of the tables and benches here. The Caretaker had given them until nine AM, just under two hours from now, which Ezra thought had been quite generous. 

With that in mind, he got up, threw his dishes into the designated bin, and made his painful way to the barracks. Maybe he'd get to see Finley again before the next round of training.

#

"Aurum Vale's... teaching philosophies have changed quite a bit since your time there."

"Have they really, Unspeakable?" Indigo asked, steel in his eyes. "How so?"

The wizard didn't respond, choosing instead to sit in silence, until he finally changed the topic. "I'm curious to hear more about this Finley."

It was Indigo's turn to not respond. He shifted in the cast iron chair, and eventually a small tear squeezed from his eye and ran down his grimy cheek, leaving behind a clear trail of skin several shades lighter. Indigo's valiantly-maintained mask had cracked.

Inhaling deeply, he shook his head and gave a mirthless chuckle. "That was the last time I saw her at Aurum Vale. When she left for the barracks... well, it wasn't just for a shower. She gathered her stuff, retrieved her wand from the Caretaker, and left the island. She couldn't handle the stress; the verbal abuse; the harassment. And I don't blame her. Why should she put up with it? Why should any of us put up with it?"

"But many others did. You did. Why?" the Unspeakable whispered. "Why did you stay?"

"We are indebted to this world. A world that has been cursed with corruption and depravity, yes; but a world that has also blessed us with birth, with breath —with life. Sometimes, it is not about what we want to do, but instead what needs to be done."


	3. Singularity

"What is an Auror's purpose?" the Caretaker asked.

They were gathered once again at the field ( _ "This field will become your home away from home," _ their instructor had said earlier that morning). After a miserable breakfast and an insufficient nap, thirty-two cadets had returned for what was promising to be just one of many torturous "lessons." Fortunately, it had stopped drizzling —for now—though it was clear that the sun was in no rush to expose itself from behind the cover of dark clouds. 

The squad was arranged in four rows of eight, each row staggered by a half-step. The Caretaker had had them standing  _ au commande _ for the past half-hour. When asked why, he had explained, "It builds character. Fortitude. Willpower." Ezra wasn't sure why the British Auror force had appropriated a French term, but he chalked it down as one of the many inexplicable decisions made by the Ministry.

"Anyone? Bennett!" The Caretaker yelled.

"Yes, Caretaker!" two girls from the front row shouted.

"Fuck, I forgot there were two of you bints. Twins, right?"

"Yes, sir. Identical," the one on the left responded with a frown.

"Clearly not," he said, staring lasciviously at both of their chests. "From now on, you'll be known as Bennett, and you," he gestured toward the second twin, "Dennett. For obvious reasons," he concluded with a smirk.

Ezra resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Dennett! What is an Auror's purpose?"

"Umm, to catch criminals?"

"No. Straighten your back, chest out; that shouldn't be too hard for you. Robbins?"

"To maintain peace," the Scot answered confidently.

"No. Feet shoulder-width apart, boy. How about you, Lestrange?"

"To put Mudbloods in their place, Caretaker," the sallow boy said with an ill-concealed smirk.

"Not quite. What the hell part of shoulders back, shoulders down, do you not understand? Drop your shoulders." The Caretaker sighed. "Any other pitiful guesses? McCormack, you look like you want to impress us with your ignorance."

"An Auror's purpose is to serve the people," she said, expressionless.

"No!" the Caretaker screamed, voice almost cracking. "What the hell is wrong with you lot? If you were any stupider... my God, I don't even know.

"The Auror's duty is to impose order. Auror. Order. You hear that? That's no coincidence — _ drop your fucking shoulders _ , Lestrange, before I drop them for you!" The large wizard took a deep breath, and Stephen Lestrange gulped, finally pulling his shoulders down.

" _ Imperium, Regnum, Arbitrium. _ The motto of the Auror force. Order. Rule. Control. Our duty to the people —to the Ministry, to Britain—is to impose order, maintain rule, and assert control within society, through whatever means necessary. Throughout history, this has manifested in different ways, depending on the political and economic climate of the time.

"Right now, in a post-war Britain, it means that we must be ready to act firmly, decisively, and without hesitation —to set the tone for magical Britain, to make it clear there's no room in this fragile society for any civil misbehaviour. Ironically, this is one of the most dangerous times to be an Auror: with the fall of the Dark Lord and the chaos within the ranks of the Ministry, the power vacuums that have been left behind are rife for abuse. Whether it's disillusioned citizens, or bitter followers of the Dark Lord, our actions must scream to the world that we're in control.

"The most important thing is that you present a united front. There can be no room for disunity among you, because when there's disunity, there's opportunity for unrest. For riots. Revolts. Revolution. There will be times when the people dislike you. There will be times when you are unpopular. But take solace in the fact that the Ministry has existed for nearly three hundred years —far longer than any of those people. We have the privilege of knowing what's best for our society, even if society doesn't itself know. Even if society disagrees. Even if society thinks it would be better off without the Ministry of Magic."

"But, sir —won't we come off as arrogant? Or oppressive?" Robbins asked.

"Better to be the oppressor than the oppressed. It's a casualty of war. Listen, I believe in results, not methods. Do what you need to do to get things done. Leave it to the journalists and politicians to argue ethics and policy."

There was a stale silence among the squad as the cadets digested the Caretaker's latest words. Most seemed to accept the claim, but Weasley and Robbins looked notably agitated. Eventually, Weasley broke the spell when he suddenly sneezed.

"Weasley! Which is your wand arm?"

"My right..." the redhead said with a frown, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

"Then why the hell is it behind your back?"

Weasley grimaced and swapped the positions of his arms.

"Merlin, help me... Devenish! Front and centre!" the Caretaker barked.

The olive-skinned girl paled and nearly ran to the front. "Yes, sir!"

" _ Au commande _ , cadet!" He grunted in acceptance when she immediately complied. "This is the... least bad form out of all of you morons," he said, gesturing to the girl in front of him while addressing the remainder of the squad.

"Shoulders pulled back and down; back straight, hips squared, feet under the shoulders. Left arm locked behind the back, palm out; right arm hanging  _ loosely _ at the side.  _ Au commande. _ Get used to the position. When you're not eating, sleeping, or running, you assume this position. Understood?"

"Yes, Caretaker!"

"Now, I bet you narcissistic, selfish arseholes are used to getting what you want and saying to hell with anyone else. Well that's just not possible if you're gonna be an Auror. Under my care you will learn to work with a group, as a group. You need to be able to rely on the Aurors around you —you need to trust that they've got your back, just like you've got theirs. You may not know them, you may not like them, but you will trust them.

"The first step to that goal is learning to move together. To act together. To think together. Does that make sense, or are you too brain-dead to comprehend such an unfathomable concept, Smith?"

"I understand, Caretaker," Smith said with a bored expression that clearly belied his words.

"Nettleton, you don't look so convinced."

Indeed, she looked positively ill at the thought.

"I'll be fine, sir," she mumbled.

"Now, all you lot, get over here. Half on each side, four by four. Double time, you slugs, I don't have all day!" he exclaimed.

The cadets quickly rushed over and arranged themselves on either side of the Caretaker.

"Forward march! Step together. Left foot! Right foot! Left foot! Right foot! There we go," he said with just the barest hint of satisfaction. "You will learn to move with each other, not against each other.

"No longer will you be pieces of scrap that flop around heedlessly. You will be part of a finely-constructed machine, cogs that move together with purpose. You will become a hand-crafted, exquisite, beautifully-designed fucking masterpiece of a clock. Shoulders back, Boot, before I shove my own boot up your arse!

"After all, a clock is nothing without a hundred insignificant little pieces working together in perfect harmony.  _ Damn it _ , Nettleton, you must truly hate clocks and all that they stand for. Get your feet in the game! Come on —right foot, left foot, right foot...

"Do you feel stupid yet? You should. Hell, I feel stupid, having to lead this calamity into the ground. This is clearly an exercise in futility —but you've gotta learn to walk before you can run. At least, that's what the training manual says, but I think you lot are more likely to drop dead than actually learn anything."

Ezra's thoughts turned inward as they continued to march forward, though he was careful not to break step. To earn the Caretaker's attention was to earn the Caretaker's ire —something that Ezra had no desire to do. The steady stream of shouts and insults was actually rather impressive; clearly the instructor had practised for years, amassing an extensive armoury of sharp quips and pithy remarks.

That didn't make him any less of a complete arse, of course. It was clear that the Caretaker derived unadulterated joy from insulting, deriding, and humiliating the cadets. Maybe it made them better fighters; in fact, Ezra was sure it did. But it made them worse human beings. No amount of proficiency in a firefight could ever make up for the constant erosion of the psyche as one endured countless hours of verbal and psychological abuse. And how that torment would steadily, if ever so slowly, translate into a desensitisation to pain and suffering, whether one's own or otherwise; an eventual numbness in the soul.

That numbness bred indifference, which itself bred ignorance and arrogance —and it had methodically overtaken the Auror force, an unseen but deadly plague. In a way, the Auror force was just one stone in the grotesque stronghold of fear, distrust, and intolerance that had been slowly constructed over the past years. But it was the cornerstone of that stronghold. It was the face of the Ministry; the arm of the law; the wand of injustice.

He suddenly lurched forward, knocked from his train of thought as he stumbled over a root jutting from the ground.

"Watch where you're going, Rowe," Rosier growled from behind him, unceremoniously shoving him forward.

Fortunately, the Caretaker missed the short exchange, as he was busy chastising Moreau for who-knows-what.

Apparently their instructor had become quite bored, as they soon increased their pace to a jog. An exercise that Ezra had at first found rather simple, quickly became anything but. Every cadet's legs were of different lengths, meaning that to synchronise steps, no one could run at their natural cadence. It was hard enough to maintain speed within the cohort, but to also retain formation and rhythm was just impossible. Add to the fact that he was running on just a few short hours of sleep...

And the others weren't faring much better. Even from here, Ezra could hear Smith complaining to his neighbours about just how unnatural this was. But no one paid him any heed, as they had their own problems to deal with. Atherton was gasping, trying to get a breath of fresh air from the centre of the tight formation of cadets. He could see Kovacs holding her stomach tightly, teeth gritted as she stumbled along. Nettleton had molded her face into a mostly-expressionless mask, but her frustration was still clear —she simply wasn't coordinated enough to maintain position in a small pack without hitting anyone else, much less do so while running in synchrony with others.

"Here, this should make it easier!" the Caretaker cackled. His maniacal grin told Ezra that whatever was coming would make it anything but. Without breaking stride, the instructor pulled out his wand and waved it once, eliciting a blue coil that snaked around each of their moving legs, forming a sort of connected mesh of light that pulsed once and then faded. "Left, two, three, four, left, two, three, four!"

_ What was that spell?  _ Ezra wondered. But he didn't have to wait for long to find out. When he accidentally brought his foot a bit too low and cuffed it on the ground, his right leg fell out of rhythm for just a step —he suddenly gasped and bit back a swear as a sharp sting shot from his foot up to his knee.  _ Well, that's one way to enforce group unity. _

That shackling spell marked the beginning of a very tangible decline in morale that the cadets all saw through the next hour. Even those who had been having little trouble with the exercise were starting to falter. A combination of fatigue, heat, hunger, and dehydration was taking its rather hefty toll on the group. Ezra's legs were ablaze with a seemingly permanent Stinging Jinx, and without even looking he knew his ankles and calves were dangerously swollen. In the other group, Parkinson had fallen behind by quite a bit, but Ezra didn't have the strength to turn around to see how far. And then —

"Agh!" he yelled as he was knocked down into a pile of several other people, his legs unsurprisingly jolting with yet another sting from the instructor's shackling spell. From his rather privileged position near the top of the pile of bodies, Ezra hazarded a look around. The whole formation of cadets had been unceremoniously dragged to the ground.

"What is this? Get up! Get the hell up!" the Caretaker yelled, furiously stalking toward the group.

Ezra painstakingly extracted himself from the flurry of limbs, and the others followed suit with a mixture of glares, growls, and glowers. The last remaining, having been at the bottom of the heap, was Nettleton. She must have tripped and started a chain reaction, causing all sixteen to topple to the ground.

"Does this look like a sodding clock to you, Nettleton? No, it damn well doesn't. It's a fucking mess. Don't try to clock-block me, or I swear to Merlin I will rip your legs off and give them to someone else who can fucking make better use of them." The Caretaker was positively fuming, rivulets of sweat gathering on his red face, and Ezra took an unconscious step back. "Well? Get up, Missy."

But the girl was pale as sleet, and her arms and legs were shaking. "I —I'm trying..." she mumbled. But when she went to push herself to her feet, she collapsed once again.

"You're not trying. You're  _ quitting _ ," he spat.

She didn't respond, but tried to push herself up once again, to no avail. "I can't..." 

"You're weak, Nettleton —no better than a Muggle."

The girl said nothing else, and the large wizard stared at her with a now-unreadable expression. Finally, he sighed and withdrew a wand from his pocket.

"I can't have quitters in my squadron." He tossed the wand to her and turned his back, marking the last time the man would ever see her.

#

" _ Au commande _ !" the Caretaker snapped. Thirty-one cadets instantly straightened. "Hmm. Better. Lestrange, I see you've finally learned what 'shoulders down' means."

They had just returned from their mid-afternoon "lunch," happy as always to have had a small break from the instructor's continuous torment. The cadets appeared somewhat rested —or as well rested as they could be after a short, two-hour nap.

"This evening, we will continue to work on our...  _ team unity _ ."

The cadets all groaned, but none louder than Smith. After quickly scrambling back to their marching positions —two blocks of sixteen, with one conspicuous gap left by Nettleton—they set off.

The march had quickly turned into a synchronised jog, but at least the Caretaker hadn't thought of anything new to torture them with. He hadn't even used the irksome shackling spell. The jog could by no means be considered nice, but it could have been a lot worse. The only person who'd really attracted their instructor's ire was Moreau who had seemed to just not be capable of staying in formation. He was a competent runner, so he always tended to pull ahead of the group, much to the Caretaker's displeasure.

"I expect to see you at 0400 tomorrow," the Caretaker said flatly once they arrived back at the quad.

Once inside, Ezra seated himself near the back corner and began to absently eat his sombre dinner —mushy beans—while observing Pilkington's Posse (as he had privately started to call them) with mild interest. Rosier and Nott sandwiched the girl, having been the first of the boys to arrive at her table, while Smith had been relegated to the opposite bench.

Weasley had also joined the Pilkington table this evening; he sat next to Smith, who carried on a boisterous conversation with Rosier. Nott was busy whispering something in Pilkington's ear, the contents of which Ezra had no interest in knowing but that Nott clearly thought she needed to know. However, Pilkington seemed to only have eyes for Weasley, watching as he ate in relative silence and blushing whenever he looked up and caught her gaze.

"You interested, Rowe?" A voice asked from behind his shoulder.

Ezra turned around to see Appleby staring down at him, food tray in hand.

"Want the bird for yourself, eh? Too bad it'll never happen," the blond scoffed. "Pilkington's only interested in men from  _ respectable _ families. Besides, why would she even look at a pathetic runt like you? What she needs is an alpha male, if you know what I'm getting at," he said with a menacing glint in his eyes that made Ezra more than a bit uncomfortable.

That said, for an "alpha male," Appleby seemed quite content to wait on the girl hand and foot, clearly oblivious to the irony. Ezra decided not to mention it; he was too tired for a fight anyway. "Don't worry, I'm not interested," he finally responded to the boy.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he sneered as he went to join the girl at the fan table. Upon reaching the bench, he abruptly shoved Nott to the side, sliding in between him and Pilkington. Nott appeared quite irked at being displaced, but made no move to remedy the situation —not in front of his damsel.

Ezra turned his attention to the opposite corner of the room, where Hale and his groupies had commandeered their own table. The seating arrangement was strikingly similar to that of the previous table, but with the roles swapped. The twins Bennett flanked Hale, each with an arm wrapped through one of his. This clearly prevented the boy from eating, but he didn't seem too put out by it. Instead, he seemed to be regaling fantastic (and unlikely) stories to Powell, Scarlett, and Yaxley across from him. Unlike Pilkington, he seemed to have mastered the art of entertaining a whole table of fans simultaneously. The girls were clearly lapping it up. If he had had the energy, Ezra would have laughed at their antics: Yaxley and Powell's fake laughter couldn't have been any more pronounced if it were siren song in a library.

After dinner found the cadets lounging in the barracks, most sprawled out in various positions on their cots, relaxing after the long day and trying not to think of the even longer one ahead of them. 

"This training is absolutely deplorable," Jarrett was saying. "If I had my wand, I'd show Professor 'We Are All Cogs in the Great Clock of Life' how we deal with law-breakers in my family."

"Aye," Lestrange agreed. "If I wanted to learn how to run around like a spineless Mudblood, well —"

"Watch your fucking mouth," Weasley snapped, jumping to his feet.

"The blood traitor speaks up!" Lestrange said in a sing-song voice. "Wait a minute. Rumour has it you  _ defiled _ yourself with a dirty Mudblood at Hogwarts —"

Weasley lunged forward, swinging a fist into the boy's jaw; it connected with a satisfying  _ crunch _ , staggering Lestrange back. Ezra ran up to grab Weasley by the arm, dragging him away before the fight could escalate.

"Don't you bloody talk about her —" but the rest of his sentence was cut off as Ezra pulled him away.

Glaring at the redhead, Lestrange nursed his jaw for a moment but then snorted. "I suppose next you'll start buggering Hughes. Seems topical."

"Fuck off, Lestrange, I'm half-blood," the stocky boy retorted from across the room.

"Same difference, isn't it?"

A few titters echoed around the room.

"Fat lot you know," Robbins muttered.

Ezra heard the comment, but he wasn't sure if anyone else did —or if anyone was even paying attention.

"Just twenty-seven more days of this and then I'm an Auror," Scarlett interjected from her upper bunk. "I can live with that. 'Cause when you're an Auror —well, everyone's gotta do everything you say," she said with a gleam in her eyes. 

"Father said that becoming an Auror is one of the fastest ways to rise up in the ranks of the Ministry," Sturch explained. "I couldn't give a shite about Auror's work. But, Head of the Auror Office... the DMLE... and one day, maybe Minister for Magic," he concluded with a self-satisfied smirk.

" _ Minister Sturch _ ," Rosier mocked. "What the hell would you do as Minister anyway? Besides finally convince me to off myself?" He mimicked slitting his throat with a Cutting Curse.

"You know, reforms and such," Sturch said with a shrug. Several sets of eyes swung around to stare at him incredulously. He stared for a second, and then grinned. "Fudge is too much of a milksop to lead; he's running the Ministry into the ground. Gotta put your foot down, put the fucking half-breeds and Mudbloods in their place."

The barracks erupted with raucous laughter. Ezra, who had only been half-paying attention, whipped his head around to stare at Sturch, who in turn met his gaze defiantly. Ezra narrowed his eyes and held the stare until Sturch finally looked away.

The cadets continued with their various witty (and some not-so-witty) banter, as Ezra started to waver in and out of consciousness, the exhaustion finally getting to him. Finally, Bennett excused herself to shower, with Dennett and Appleby following suit, apparently marking the end of the evening's festivities.

With a final sigh of relief, Ezra drifted off to sleep, followed soon after by the rest of the squadron.

#

_ Beep, beep, beep. _

Ezra burrowed his head as far as he could under his poor excuse for a pillow, dead set on drowning out the screeches of the bloody blasted alarm.

_ Beep, beep, beep. _

"Oh, shit," he slurred, rolling over and falling out of bed. He did not want a repeat of yesterday.

"You lot had better get up," McCormack's voice emerged from the darkness. "We definitely don't want to be late."

Amidst a sea of groans and complaints, the cadets slowly tumbled out of bed and prepared themselves for the day ahead, finally dragging themselves outside to the quad.

The Caretaker was nowhere in sight, so Ezra was content to stand there, swaying as he half-slept on his feet.

"Good morning, my budding blossoms!" the instructor's voice suddenly boomed from behind them, accompanied by a spell which flooded light onto the field.

Ezra shot to attention, now wide awake.

"Good morning, Caretaker!" they chorused.

"Appleby, you seem awfully chipper this morning," he said with a hint of amusement, glancing at the blond and then at the Bennett twins flanking him. "Got some twin action last night, eh?"

Both twins flushed red and Appleby shifted awkwardly, gritting his teeth while trying to school his features. When it became clear that it wasn't a rhetorical question, he finally muttered, incredibly unconvincingly, "Not sure what you're talking about, sir..."

Ezra raised an eyebrow. Apparently their evening hadn't ended with just a shower.

"Cartwright, what time is it?" the Caretaker asked.

"It is... exactly four o'clock, Caretaker."

"Splendid. Moreau, is everyone here?"

The Frenchman's lips slowly curved into a smirk. "No, sir. Olaru is missing."

Ezra's stomach dropped. This would not fare well for them. He wasn't sure why Moreau apparently thought otherwise.

"Pardon me?" the brawny wizard asked slowly, enunciating each syllable as if the boy were hard of hearing.

"Olaru isn't here —he's late."

"And that's  _ amusing _ to you, Moreau?" the Caretaker asked, slowly approaching the boy. "You thought you'd earn extra points if you threw your fellow cadet under the train? Wipe that bloody smirk off your face."

Moreau seemed to finally realise the mistake he'd made, and he tried to stop smiling, but his efforts were in vain as his lips contorted into some mutilated grimace that reminded Ezra of a constipated Cockatrice.

"You've got five seconds to get that shit-grin off your face before I make you sorry, boy. Five. Four. Three —" but apparently the Caretaker had gotten sick of waiting, and he swung a large first into the boy's jaw, instantly dropping him to the floor and causing him to spit up blood.

He leaned down, putting his hands on his knees, so that Moreau could still see him as he gasped in pain. "Still having a laugh, now? ...no?"

The Caretaker straightened back up and surveyed the other wizards. "Why is Olaru late?" The tone of his voice was ice cold.

No one wanted to be the person that had to say "I don't know."

"Oh, boy, do I sense pain in your future," said the Caretaker when no one responded. "Ah, the lamb finally comes to slaughter. Three minutes late!"

Ezra turned his head as Olaru came to a skid in front of the Caretaker, gasping from his sprint.

"S —sorry, sir," he wheezed. "I don't know—"

"Shut up." The instructor turned his back on Olaru and slowly walked away from him. "Clearly you got  _ nothing _ out of yesterday's exercises." He whipped back around to stare at the Romanian. "Why were you late?"

"I must have overslept my alarm, sir," the boy responded quickly.

"No," the Caretaker instantly replied, to Olaru's obvious confusion. "Ambrose, why was Olaru late this morning?"

"Umm," the wispy brunette said. "Because he was tired?"

"No... Moreau, you look like you could use a second chance," he said to the boy who had unsteadily crawled back to his feet. "Why was your squad-mate late?"

"Because he —"

"NO! You fucking imbeciles —it has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with you!  _ You _ rendezvoused at the quad without checking that everyone was accounted for,  _ you _ tried to save your own arses by screwing over your squad-mate, and  _ you  _ failed to understand what it means to be a team!" the man snarled, orange sparks jumping out of the wand that he had at some point pulled from a pocket. "An Auror is nothing without the Aurors around him. And  _ you _ have just killed your fellow Auror.

"None of you know the first thing about teamwork. But I will remedy this fatal flaw if it's the last thing I ever do on this godforsaken island. You have all just earned yourselves —let's see... Thirty-one cadets, times three minutes... My goodness. We have ninety-three minutes of unadulterated pleasure in our future, in the form of a pleasant, early-morning jog. That sound good to you?"

"Yes, Caretaker," Ezra dejectedly muttered with the others.

"Not you, cadet Olaru —" He stopped the boy from joining the group. "No. Cadets, Olaru will be sitting this one out. He didn't betray his peer: you did. And you will pay the price for it. Besides, Olaru must be very tired. Here." With a wave of his wand, the Caretaker conjured a large, four-poster bed, complete with frilly tassels adorning the edges of the canopy. "Why don't you take a nap while we go for a run?"

"No, sir, it's okay —"

"Lie the fuck down, boy. See, that wasn't so hard, was it? Have a good rest!"

And with a sarcastic wave, the Caretaker turned to the rest of the group, barking at them to get into formation. He once again cast the shackling spell before they set off at a jog.

#

"Down!" Cartwright shouted.

" _ Imperium _ !" they yelled back as they did yet another press-up.

"Down!"

_ "Regnum!" _

"Down!"

" _ Arbitrium _ !"

"Down!"

"Twenty-four!"

They had only been at Aurum Vale for some five days, but the cadence was already baked into his head. It was how they counted all of their exercises —in sets of four.

_ Imperium. Regnum. Arbitrium.  _ Count.

And repeat ad infinitum —or until the Caretaker stopped them. Fortunately, the cadets had quickly learned the proper way to do things: the unspoken motto, after all, was  _ "Do it right the first time _ _ —together." _ Everything was done as a group, or not at all. The Caretaker seemed hellbent on beating that into their heads.

"Halt," Ezra heard the strong voice of the instructor yell across the clearing.

The cadets rose to their feet, automatically standing  _ au commande _ .

"How are we feeling this morning?"

"Excellent, Caretaker!" they shouted.

"Really? You're not tired after a measly three hours of sleep?"

"No, Caretaker!" they lied in unison. By this point, tired was just their default state of existence. Ezra had never felt this  _ weary _ before in his life. Not just an acute, lack-of-sleep-yesterday kind of tired, but an overarching, overwhelming, unending exhaustion that soaked into his skin, his muscles, and his bones. He didn't know if he would ever be able to recover from it, even after training was complete.

An almost comfortable silence fell over the quad. They knew not to move, not to speak —their instructor was perfectly content to let them stand there all day. If he wanted them to do anything, he would say so.

After quietly appraising each of the thirty-one before him, the Caretaker spoke again. "Why do you think I work you so hard in physical training?"

"To weed out the weak?"

"Because you enjoy torturing us?"

"Preparing us for battle situations?"

"Well, yes, all of the above," he responded to the flurry of suggestions. "But Smith is right on the mark —ten points to whatever ruddy house you were in." He smirked at his own joke. "I need you to be prepared to handle whatever combat situation emerges during your miserable career as an Auror. One-on-one, three-on-two, five-on-eight, sieges, hostage resolution, witness neutralisation, riots, uncooperative dissidents, close-quarters combat..." He ticked off fingers as he recited each of these. "Too many to name. But you  _ will _ be prepared for any situation you encounter —or you'll be dead.

"There's a method behind every madness here at Aurum Vale."

_ Yes _ , thought Ezra,  _ 'madness' is one way to put it. _

"Press-ups —upper body strength. Jogging—agility, cardio, gets you thinking on your feet. Marching—team bonding. The short nights and long days—well, you need to be able to survive under extreme pressure; you must be able to rely on your training, your muscle memory, when you're starving, exhausted, and everything has gone to hell." The Caretaker slowly walked down the ranks of cadets, and once he'd reached the other side, he yelled, "That understood?"

"Yes, Caretaker!"

"Enough yacking, let's play a game. I love games, don't you?" He didn't wait for a response. "When I say 'down,' you get down. And when I say 'up,' you get up. Does that make sense, or would you like a refresher course, Lovell?"

"Yes, sir —I mean, no sir!" the redhead screamed.

The man walked to the centre of the group and grasped his hands behind his back. "Down."

Ezra dropped to a kneel. He heard the squishing of footsteps in the mud behind him, and then felt a cuff to the side of his head which knocked him over.

"Are you fucking drunk, Rowe?" the Caretaker asked with a look of incredulity. "Get the hell on the ground. If I'd wanted you to kneel, I'd have said 'kneel,' not 'get down.'"

Boy, did he feel stupid.

"Merlin's wand, I'm flabbergasted by the idiocy around me. Maybe I should go home before I get infected, too..." he muttered more to himself than anyone else.

"Up!"

Desperate to allay any attention from the Caretaker, Ezra quickly rose despite the latent burning in his quads, being sure to stand at attention.

"Oh my God. If I have to put up with this I might just slit my own wrists. You lot look like you're getting out of bed after a night of heavy drinking —no doubt due to your embarrassment at your shitty performance here. I want to see you get  _ up _ —with passion! Not 'up, time for breakfast.'"

"Down!"

The Slytherin dropped to the ground, using only his hands to arrest his fall, preventing him from smashing face-first into the mud.

"Hit the fucking floor like your life depends on it, Lovell!" the man snarled. "You're not wearing a pretty little dress to keep clean, are you?"

She shook her head but didn't say anything.

"And... up!"

Ezra jumped to his feet best he could. 

"Pathetic. Down!" After Ezra dropped to the ground once again, the man gave him a swift kick in the side. "I swear, Rowe, if you don't bury your face in that mud, you'll be sleeping out here tonight."

And on it went, until Ezra lost count —and time—entirely. At this point, his body was on autopilot, reacting to their mad instructor's commands.

"Sir," Hughes gasped after their umpteenth cycle. "You said every madness has a method... what about this one?"

The field became instantly silent as every cadet held their breath. The expression on the Caretaker's face was explosive. Ezra wasn't certain of their chances for survival that morning.

" _ What? _ " The man strode forward to glare at Hughes, and then turned, surveying the rest of the squadron.

"I just gave you a lecture on the importance, the significance, of every —single—exercise—on this island, and it's taken you nearly  _ twenty minutes _ to ask about this one?!" he screamed, voice nearly cracking at the peak of his anger. "And it's the  _ half-blood _ who first thought to ask?" he choked. "Oh my God. Fucking embarrassing for you lot. Good on Hughes for not being a pussy and actually asking the right questions. Looks like you may have a bright future, after all."

The Caretaker suddenly whipped out his wand and screamed, "DOWN!"

Instinctively, Ezra let himself drop to the floor, but he wasn't fast enough —an area-wide Concussive Hex screamed through the air, knocking him back a few feet and causing him to land awkwardly on his elbow. The other recruits didn't fare much better.

"Too fucking slow —get UP!"

Ezra knew what was coming and jumped up as hard as he could, sore legs be damned. He was nearly fast enough, too —the wave of blue flame that tore across the muddied ground only barely licked his feet as he had jumped. Fortunately, his boots bore the brunt of the heat.

"You want to know the reason for this exercise?  _ Down! _ "

With a moan, Ezra slammed in the ground below as a Blasting Curse whistled above his head. In front of him, Scarlett yelped in pain as it grazed by her shoulder; fortunately, the curse's effect was lessened due to the wide area it had covered.

"It's to simulate dodging spells in a fight. Up!" —a vibrant purple jinx raced down the quad where thirty-one pairs of feet had been milliseconds prior—"So that you don't  _ fucking die  _ when you're too stupid to throw up a shield!"

No longer was Ezra willing to trust his body to unconsciously follow the commands of their instructor. A tenth-of-a-second delay would be the difference between an incredibly sore leg, and a shattered leg —or worse.

A lengthy, and painful, session followed, with the spells cast becoming more erratic and dangerous. Blasting Curses and Concussive Hexes gave way to Suffocation Jinxes, Bone-Breaking Curses, and Exsanguination Curses —none of them necessarily fatal as their power was considerably diminished over an area, but still appallingly painful to be hit by.

"There are house-elves at Mess that will heal you up. If you can make it there," he added with an apathetic snort. "Now get the hell out of my sight."

The group slowly walked —or crawled—toward the Mess hall. There did not seem to be a single person who was wholly uninjured.

Among the more serious injuries were Kovacs and Parkinson, who were both bleeding heavily from their legs; they were helped along by Nott and Lestrange, who seemed to only have minor neck and arm bruising.

Pilkington had a shattered finger, so Appleby and Weasley had volunteered to carry her, despite the rather gruesome cuts on their shoulders and backs. Apparently Appleby had lost interest in the Bennetts after their lecherous adventure the other night; he was back to hounding Pilkington, but the twins didn't seem too torn up about it.

Jarrett and Vance were limping along, holding a quiet conversation between them.

Ezra himself walked alone, slowly but steadily, still barely able to inhale enough oxygen to stay upright —he had had the misfortune of being hit by the tail end of a Suffocation Jinx.

When they arrived at Mess, the house-elves ushered them onto the uncomfortable benches and began to quickly, if dispassionately, heal them.

"Hey, house-elf," Hughes said from beside him on the bench, "can I get a Butterbeer?"

But the diminutive creature ignored the request, continuing to treat the various cuts on the boy's face and chest.

Hughes growled and grabbed the house-elf's wrist. "Stupid house-elf —I order you to give me a Butterbeer!"

The house-elf narrowed his eyes and snapped his fingers, pushing Hughes flat up against the wall behind him and pinning him there with some kind of binding spell. "You's not my master, cadet. I's to heal you only."

Hughes flushed but snapped his mouth shut.

"Guess you didn't grow up around house-elves, did you?" Ezra asked with a smirk —and a cough. His lungs had been mostly repaired but it would take a few hours to fully recover.

"Shut up, Rowe," the boy snarled. "No one asked for your stupid comments."

Ezra shrugged. The house-elf attending him disappeared with a snap of her fingers, which Ezra took to mean that he was free to go. He carefully shuffled over to the kitchen, and dumped a few spoonfuls of slop into his bowl. Fortunately, they no longer had to cook their own food by hand, and it was instead provided by the house-elves —not that that made it taste any better.

He sat down, and turned to watch as Weasley plopped down onto the bench next to Pilkington, who by now had a fully-mended set of fingers. "Heya, Elspeth," he said with a lopsided grin, putting his arm casually around her shoulders.

She turned her head to level a stare at him, before it turned into a sickly sweet smile. "Yes?"

"How are you doing?" he asked, running his free hand through his tangled hair.  _ Maybe out of nervousness. Or... was he preening? He must be smitten, the poor guy. _

"I'm quite well,  _ Ronald _ ," the willowy girl responded. "Are you feeling better? You must be so sore after carrying me all the way here, and with your poor shoulders." She brought her free hand up and caressed his shoulder. "Is it all better now?"

The redhead goggled, then quickly nodded. "Umm, yeah... Right as rain."

Ezra cringed at the cliche.

"That was so kind of you, to carry me here," she said, leaning in until she was scant inches from his face. "Thank you."

Weasley's face turned red until it nearly matched his hair. "Uh, no problem..." He gulped and then leaned in to close the remaining distance.

But Pilkington danced back, shaking her head and putting her finger on his lips. "So eager," she giggled. With a flip of her hair, she turned and started chatting with Rosier.

Appleby stared pointedly at Weasley, who only responded with a look of confusion.

Ezra felt a tap on his shoulder, and he turned to be greeted by —Dennett's eponymous bust. "I see you were watching the Weasley fiasco," the Irish girl said with a smirk, joining him on the rather uncomfortable bench.

He stared, unsure what she was getting at.

"He's cute, I guess, but just not the charmer type. You, on the other hand... I'm sure you could charm a snake out of its skin. If you wanted," she added with an alluring smile, laying her hand on his bicep. After a moment of stiff silence, Dennett frowned slightly. "Well?"

"Uh," he finally sputtered, not quite sure what else to say. "Thanks?"

"Hmph," the girl pouted. She withdrew her hand from his arm, and without another word, she got up and left the table, being sure to sway her hourglass figure tantalisingly as she approached Lestrange's table.

"What was that about?" Robbins asked dumbly as he sat down at the table next to his.

"I am not sure."

#

"List four ways to incapacitate a dissident civilian."

"Stunner, Disarming Jinx, Bone-Breaking Curse, and, uh... Incarcerous," Hale responded.

_ Left, left, left...  _ Ezra recited in his head.

"Good. Petrovic —name the rights that Muggles have under detainment."

"That's a trick question, sir —since they're not magical beings, they have none," she said.

The Caretaker had taken to drilling them as they jogged —always in step, of course.  _ "Get used to multitasking, cadets," _ he had said.  _ "The ability to move and think at the same time will save your life." _ It had been a chore at first; Ezra would often fall out of step while responding, as he couldn't mark cadence while thinking of something else. But, as with everything, practice made perfect.

They soon arrived back at the quad, whereupon they broke formation and spread into ranks.

"I believe that there is such a thing as a stupid question," the Caretaker started. "And I believe that people who ask stupid questions, are stupid people. That said, I begrudgingly admit that you lot have been performing nearly adequately the past few days —and as a reward, I want to give you the opportunity to ask whatever questions you'd like, without judgement. This is a one-time offer. You have sixty seconds."

"What's your name, sir?"

"That's a stupid question, Robbins; my name is Caretaker."

Robbins grumbled and rolled his eyes.

"How long have you been an Auror?" Parkinson asked.

"Twenty-two years."

"Did you know Harry Potter?" asked Atherton after a short silence.

"No, nor would I have wanted to."

No one said anything for several seconds.

"Any other questions? You've got nine seconds."

McCormack finally spoke. "When will we get our wands back, Caretaker?"

He chuckled and grinned. "Tomorrow."

The cadets broke out in a wave of excited conversation.

"Quiet," he ordered. "Yes, I'll be handing out wands tomorrow. But don't celebrate just yet. First, you have to get through today. You see, today is the last day of phase one of Aurum Vale training, and to mark this momentous occasion, we'll be having a...  _ get-together _ this evening."

Ezra cringed. He knew enough by now to know that this wouldn't be a fun get-together.

"I expect you back here at 23:59 —that's one minute before midnight. Now go, bugger off."

When he arrived back at the barracks, Ezra glanced at the magical clock. It was just after three in the afternoon —the Caretaker had given them nearly nine hours off! It was the longest contiguous break they had been given since arriving on the island, and he could have shouted for joy if he weren't so damn tired.

He quickly showered to clean off the grime and sweat, then wrapped a towel around his waist, stepping out of the stall into the shared washroom.

Immediately, someone shouldered past him —"Oh, sorry about that!" Dennett said quickly, as she entered the stall he'd just left. He watched as she dropped her bathrobe to the ground. "Oop, my mistake," she said with a giggle, bending down to pick it up. Flinging the robe onto the wall hook, she fixed him with an unreadable gaze as his eyes automatically roved up and down her nude body. "Missed your chance, Rowe—shame, isn't it?"

For the second time in as many minutes, someone shoved past him —"What are you looking at, Rowe?" Nott asked as he followed Dennett into the stall. "It's rude to stare, creep. Bugger off." He yanked the curtain shut as Ezra backed away.

With a shake of his head, he turned and left the washroom. But before he could get to his cot, his path was blocked by the burly form of Robbins.

"Rowe," the Scot said neutrally.

"Robbins," he responded with a barest hint of a nod. 

The two boys stared at each other for a moment before Robbins stepped to the side, allowing Ezra to pass. But as he did, he heard Robbins mutter —"We should talk."

Without looking back, Ezra gave the scarcest of nods, then dragged himself to his bunk. With a sigh of relief, he plopped down onto the lumpy mattress and shut his eyes. He was looking forward to a very, very long nap.

He woke at just past eleven —it had been a nearly-eight-hour nap. It felt  _ amazing _ . Ironically, he had never felt more comfortable in his life; lumpy, thread-barren mattress be damned. He probably couldn't fall asleep again, not to mention the fact that he had to get up soon anyway. But Ezra was perfectly content to lie in the darkness, listening to the quiet snores of the cadets around him.

They had all, apparently, made the wise decision to take advantage of the break to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Not that there was much else to do here at Aurum Vale... besides certain extra-curricular activities that the twins (and, doubtless, others) seemed quite involved with.

It was, of course, common knowledge that Appleby had had his wicked way with the twins —or perhaps, the other way around—during the second night on the island. Apparently, they were quite the adventurous siblings, to say the least. There hadn't been much discussion of the topic, but Ezra wasn't naive. He was sure that a non-negligible portion of the males had taken advantage of the twins' rather low inhibitions. Or perhaps it was a lack of standards. He couldn't be sure.

Suffice to say that he wasn't interested in fooling around with the twins. Nor did he particularly trust them —or really, anyone else at Aurum Vale. In fact, there were only two people possibly worth befriending here: Robbins, and—

No, best not to count his dragons before they hatched. 

That said, the first egg did seem promising. He wasn't sure what Robbins wanted to discuss, but he had some ideas. If his hunch was correct, Ezra could gain something he desperately needed at Aurum Vale: an ally.

He was interrupted from his wandering thoughts by the sounds of rustling and groans around him, as his squad-mates slowly returned to the land of the living. He rolled out of his bed, still sore from the tip of his ears to the soles of his foot —no amount of sleep could change that. He threw on his clothes and went to stand by the foot of his cot.

"Is everyone up?" Cartwright asked in the darkness. Per their instructor's insistence, she had taken on the role of  _ de facto  _ squadron leader. It could have been worse, he supposed. "Even you, Olaru?"

"Yes, yes, I'm up," the Romanian sighed.

"We've got a few minutes. Count off."

And so they counted off. Upon reaching thirty-one, Cartwright nodded and led them out of the barracks to the quad.

The Caretaker didn't even bother asking if they were all present. The cadets wouldn't be standing on the quad before him if they weren't sure that all were accounted for. He silently led them toward the edge of the nearby forest, and then finally spoke.

"We started as thirty-five, and have lost four this week. If you can't do maths, that means we're at thirty-one. I expect that number to continue to diminish. Such is life. Tonight's exercise is actually quite simple. You will be doing a quick run around the forest. It's only twenty-one kilometres."

_ Oh, shit _ , Ezra thought. That was far more than he'd ever run at once —even at Aurum Vale. It would not be pleasant. Of that, he was sure.

"By the way, if you're caught by the large, angry plant chasing you —you lose."

The Caretaker withdrew his wand, conjured a comfortable chair, and sat down.

"On my mark, you'll begin. I suggest you run like your life depends on it."

He raised his wand and fired a large red firework into the sky which exploded in a dazzling array of colours —the signal to start.

"You better run like hell!" he shouted at the cadets as they sprinted off. "I'm only giving you a thirty second head start!"

Ezra didn't bother looking back to make sure they were really being chased. He couldn't afford to waste the energy.

#

"I presume you passed the evaluation."

"You presume correctly. Though I did vomit afterwards. Twice."

"Congratulations," the Unspeakable said tonelessly. "How did the others do?"

"Zacharias Smith was nearly caught by the plant. It turns out that he, in his endless wisdom, tried to Apparate out of that situation."

The Unspeakable winced.

"One of the worst splinches I've ever seen. Needless to say, the Caretaker was not pleased. Smith was off the island before he could say 'Apparate.'

"Ironically, McCormack —I don't recall her given name—was also sent home, even though she was the first to finish the race. She'd always been a natural runner; easily trounced the rest of us. The Caretaker thought she'd become a bit too complacent in the assessment—so he dismissed her."

"Your instructor —he was quite demanding."

Indigo nodded. "Yes. The Caretaker was serious when he said he expected our unending attention and unrelenting effort, for the entirety of our stint at Aurum Vale. But we got out of it what we put into it. I can assure you that I wouldn't be the Auror I am today if it weren't for his instruction."

"Indigo 9733, lest you have forgotten, you are no longer an Auror," the Unspeakable responded with a chuckle. "You have fallen far from the Ministry's grace, as evidenced by your current situation."

"Quite the opposite, Unspeakable. I think you'll find that I'm the only true Auror remaining. Just as this table isn't a table because you call it so, an Auror isn't defined by what the Ministry writes on a piece of parchment.

"Gregson, Jarrett, the Caretaker —those weren't Aurors," he hissed. "Those were bigots, traitors, hate-filled blood purists that misappropriated the title and used it for their own corrupt crusades. The real Aurors, the likes of Moody, Wrent, Shacklebolt—they had been forcibly retired or otherwise disposed of long before I even started at Aurum Vale." The man took a slow breath to calm himself. "I suppose this all falls on deaf ears."

"Not at all, Indigo," the Unspeakable said in a placatory tone. "Your version of the truth is all that matters."

"Truth is singular," Indigo snarled, slamming his fist on the table. "Its 'versions' are mistruths!"

The Praesix raised their wands at his outburst, but the Unspeakable waved them off.

"Relativism is the wand of the oppressor, Unspeakable Magus.  _ That _ is what plagued the Ministry fifty years ago, and  _ that _ is what plagues the Ministry now."

"I am sorry you feel that way, Indigo 9733," the other wizard said as he wrote a few more symbols on his lone piece of parchment. "In the interest of time, I hope you don't mind if I change the topic slightly?" At Indigo's jerky shake of the head, he continued. "You've expressed your repeated distaste for your instructor, yet you credit your abilities, your success, to him. Why is that?"

"Why shouldn't I? No one could deny he was an excellent fighter, and, in a very convoluted and disturbing way, an excellent teacher. Only a fool refuses to learn from his enemies. Even Potter knew as much."


	4. Shield...

" _ Au commande _ !" the man snarled as he took his usual position in front of the cadets.

"Phase two of training begins now. But I'm not here to congratulate you. You don't deserve congratulations. You deserve a swift kick in the arse. Unfortunately, there are twenty-nine of you and I only have two feet, so I suppose I'll have to make do. Anyway, I suppose I promised you wands today." 

The Caretaker flicked his wand, causing a hail of wands to fly out, one to each cadet.

"Sir, this isn't my wand," Powell said with a frown as she turned the wand over in her hands.

"No, it's not. These are training wands," the man said with a snort. "I don't trust you lot not to accidentally kill yourselves trying to cast spells. Or worse —accidentally kill me. Don't worry, though, they're really just like normal wands... mostly. Parkinson! Would you say you're good at following instructions?"

Pansy Parkinson narrowed her eyes and then responded, "Yes, sir."

"Good. Shield yourself!"

Before Parkinson could raise her wand, a bright blue spell impacted her chest, knocking her back several feet.

"Apparently not that good," he cackled, as she unsteadily rose to her feet. "Again!"

But this time she was ready, casting a shaky " _ Protego _ !" just in time to deflect the Caretaker's blue spell up into the sky.

"Shield!"

But to Ezra's surprise, it wasn't a blue spell that emerged from the Caretaker's wand towards the girl; instead, it was an area-wide Concussive Hex that toppled every single recruit to the ground except for Parkinson, who had once again raised a Shield Charm.

"Always be on your guard, cadets. You didn't think I'd let Parkinson have all the fun, did you? Get up, you lousy buffoons."

"Shield yourselves!"

" _ Protego _ !" Ezra shouted as he slashed his training wand downward, feeling the familiar, and comforting, rush of magic through his arm. The shield was just in time to absorb the Caretaker's next jinx, though the force of it dissipating against the magical barrier jarred his hand rudely, as if he had just swung a large hammer against a metal gong.

The exercise continued, with the Caretaker shouting  _ 'Shield!' _ milliseconds, it seemed, before his next spell impacted the recruits. The novelty of the exercise, and of finally being able to use magic, quickly wore off as their instructor sent spell after spell at them, calling for a new shield each time. It would have been much easier to cast a single Shield Charm and just hold it through the barrage of spells, but the relentless Caretaker refused them that luxury.

Ezra had finally gotten used to the rhythm of the exercise, and the persistent numbness in his hand, when he heard, "DOWN!"

" _ Prot _ —" he began to shout before realising his mistake. Pulling his legs out from under him, he dropped to the ground, but it was far too late. The wave of white-hot flames caught him in the arm and chest, instantly melting his robes at the impact location and searing his skin. "Fuck!" he shouted, and if he hadn't already been on the ground, he would have dropped down to it in pain.

"What the hell kind of show was that?" the Caretaker shouted at the injured cadets, none of whom had successfully avoided the spell. "You've got a wand now, and all of the sudden you've forgotten the past  _ week _ 's training? I don't think you lot deserve to be here. Get up!"

Ezra jumped up to avoid the Fissure Charm, and then jumped  _ again _ to avoid a rainbow-coloured hex he didn't recognise.

"Down!"

Back to the ground.

"Shield!"

It was awkward to cast a shield from the prone position, but he was mostly successful. Only minor lacerations on his upper arms.

"Down!"

Unsure what to do, as he was already on the ground, Ezra just flattened himself in the mud as best he could. He was glad he did, as a Cutting Curse whizzed by his ear, taking with it a few stray hairs from his head. He heard a hiss of pain from Nott as the curse nicked —well, something vital, Ezra hoped.

"Hold. Hold your positions," the Caretaker said. "Olaru, what the hell was that?"

"I cast a Shield Charm, sir, just in case..."

"Just in case  _ what _ ? The spell accidentally redirects itself downward?! Either dodge, or block, but not both —it's a waste of time and energy, neither of which you have to spare in a real fight. There's a reason we're doing these exercises here, and not in a live firefight. It's to build your reflexes, your instincts, and your decision-making. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," the Romanian said, face still buried in the dirt.

Without warning, another Cutting Curse grazed Ezra's ear, and he heard a yelp of pain from one of the girls behind him.

"What part of 'hold your positions' did you not bloody understand, Yaxley? It's like working with a bunch of Bowtruckles, I swear..." the man muttered.

And the exercise continued. Up. Shield. Down. Shield. That was the mantra —with a fair bit of variation. Ezra would have liked to think that the reason the Caretaker kept them out there so long that morning was because he was having trouble finding fault in their execution, but he nearly laughed at the absurdity of that thought.

If anything, the Caretaker was slowly getting angrier as the morning progressed. Twice more he had halted the exercise. The first was when Olaru cast a Shield Charm instead of jumping from the spell's path —the Caretaker had threatened to confiscate his training wand. The second was when Scarlett simply failed to block two Reductor Curses in a row; the injuries to her arms and ribs were nothing compared to the verbal thrashing the instructor had given her. And Ezra himself, though not yet singled out today, was near the end of his candle. His last several Shield Charms had been too weak to fully block the incoming hexes, and he was now trying to ignore the blood seeping down his robes, his legs, and into his shoes.

"Oh, just stop," the Caretaker finally ground out. Ezra frowned; the Caretaker seemed almost... tired. "I've seen half-dead Squibs with more gusto than this. Fuck off to lunch. Be back at 1400."

As was quickly becoming the norm, the squadron trudged to the Mess, to be met by a sea of house-elves ready to heal their various injuries. After a hurried meal of unidentifiable brown slop, Ezra returned to the barracks for what he hoped would be a productive nap. Just as he entered the dingy room, he watched as Lestrange pulled his wand from his pocket.

"...about time I get a halfway decent bed," he was saying with an arduous glare at his lumpy cot. He waved his wand in a complex pattern and said, " _ Lectus Muto _ ."

The cot was still as lumpy as ever.

" _ Lectus Muto _ ," Lestrange repeated, and scowled when the transfiguration yet again failed.

"Who's the Mudblood now, Lestrange?" Hughes yelled from the opposite end of the room. Olaru and Hughes both burst out laughing, and a few of the girls snickered.

"Shut up, Hughes, this wand is broken." The boy tapped his wand, flicked it twice, and waved it in an assortment of different patterns while muttering a litany of spells; to no avail. " _ Protego _ ," he finally said, eyes narrowing when a shimmering, white dome emerged from the tip of his wand.

"The bastard gave us defective wands —they can only cast Shield Charms," he snarled.

Despite himself, Ezra found himself drawing his wand and trying a few spells to verify his claim, as did all of the other cadets paying attention to Lestrange's debacle. But come to think of it, Ezra wasn't at all surprised. The Caretaker always did his best to make their lives as difficult as possible during training; why should that change when they were on break?

" _ Putain de bordel de merde! _ " Moreau swore, tossing his wand aside and swinging his fist into the shabby wall he had just been leaning against. The flimsy, rotting piece of wood cracked, but didn't fully give; the Frenchman yelped and shook his hand in frustration.

"Merlin, calm the fuck down," Kovacs said disgustedly.

Apparently some people were taking this harder than others, Ezra thought. Strange, considering they'd gone the past week without a lick of magic.

"Well, I am happy," Olaru said, interrupting the tense silence following Moreau's outburst. More than a few pairs of eyes turned to him. "At least I know Moreau won't hex me when I turn my back."

The usually-prim blond snarled and jumped toward Olaru, throwing a glancing punch at the boy. Both boys quickly found themselves on the ground, each trying to gain the upper hand in a rather poorly-executed fight. Certainly, physical altercations were neither boy's forte.

Devenish and Boot both sprung forward to restrain Moreau and pull him back; Hughes did the same for Olaru.

"Are you alright?" Devenish asked Moreau, who just shook her off and glared at the Romanian across from him.

Ezra couldn't resist snorting at the whole situation. Clearly, Olaru had not forgiven the arrogant prick for trying to rat him out to the Caretaker. Ezra also couldn't help the comment that followed:

"You know, Moreau, that's not very proper pure-blood behaviour; imagine what your father would say."

"Don't talk about my father, Rowe, or you'll regret it."

"He's right,  _ Laurent _ ," Pilkington chimed in with a derogatory giggle. "I'm starting to think Halfsie Hughes is more pure than you."

At this, Rosier and Nott erupted into laughter. Weasley just looked ill.

"All of you shut the hell up, I'm trying to sleep..." Cartwright mumbled from her cot. "And cut the bleeding lights, I swear..."

#

The short nap did not improve Ezra's mood, nor anyone else's, apparently. As they hiked the half-kilometre to the training quad, Olaru and Moreau could both be seen shooting frosty glares at each other while muttering obscenities under their breaths. Weasley, Appleby, and Pilkington all seemed to be miffed at each other; recent trouble in paradise, probably. Cartwright was generally being snappish to everyone, likely a result of not getting enough beauty sleep. For better or worse, the scrappy girl often set the mood for the group —an irritable Cartwright meant a downright miserable squadron.

This would not be a pleasant afternoon.

"Your performance this morning was despicable," the Caretaker began, staring down at the ground, seemingly lost in thought. His quivering hand was gripped tightly around his wand as if resisting the urge to up and hex somebody. "Your lack of focus is worrisome. Dangerous. It's that type of attitude which has caused our world to be overrun by M —" but he stopped himself and suddenly looked up at the cadets, appearing to have just snapped out of a daze. "I have no sympathy for your social drama, no tolerance for your acute lack of discipline. Whatever nonsense has taken hold of you had better get the hell out. Or you will get the hell out."

"Sir —"

"Shut your fucking mouth, Sturch. The next person who speaks is getting a one-way bloody ticket home, got that?"

The cadets silently nodded, and the Caretaker ordered them into running formation. After he cast the uncomfortable shackling spell on their ankles, they set off jogging.

What was typically a demanding exercise was only exacerbated by the tensions currently running high in the group. No one spoke as they ran, not even the Caretaker, resulting in an eerie silence which was only punctuated by heavy breathing. The lack of a verbal metronome was by far the toughest obstacle to deal with. Usually either the Caretaker or Cartwright kept cadence for the recruits to follow, but now they all had to keep half an eye on the instructor's gait, matching it, in order to satisfy the strict constraints set forth by the shackling spell.

They ran all the way through the forest, twice, then around it, doubled back to the quad, down to the craggy shore and back, through the streets of the mock deserted town, and finally back down to the shore. By the time they finished, tears flowed freely down Ezra's face as he bit back screams of pain. No matter how good he was at this routine exercise, two straight hours of synchronised jogging left plenty of margin for error, as attested by the shackling spell which had inflicted a frightening amount of damage on him —and the rest of the cadets.

His legs felt like they had been ensnared by razor blades and rammed into the rocks for a few hours. Merlin, they  _ looked _ like it too, he thought, when he built up the courage to look down. The cuffs of his trousers were torn to shreds, and apparently so was his skin. He quickly looked back up, taking a deep breath.

"Well? How's everyone feeling now?" the Caretaker asked with a steely glare, clearly not at all interested in the actual responses.

"Fine, sir," Moreau hissed through gritted teeth.

"Hopefully you've learned your lesson about buggering around instead of showing up. You know what? No. No, I don't think you have."

Ezra could have cried right there.

"Get in a circle. We're up for a new game. Go on, I don't have all day," the Caretaker said as he began to draw a large outline in the sand with his wand.

"Caretaker, sir," a small voice spoke from behind Ezra. "I don't think I can walk."

Ezra winced when he looked over at Scarlett. Her legs looked to be in about the same state as his. Like him, she was collapsed on the sand nursing her wounds —or at least, trying not to make them any worse. Come to think of it, he was in the same predicament. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to stand, let alone walk.

"Then fucking crawl over there, you whiny bint," the Caretaker snarled. "Wahh, boo hoo, I have no legs, what am I to do?" he mocked in a sing-song voice. "Bloody get used to fighting with a disadvantage. I'm sure you'll have no lack of them in the future."

When Ezra had dragged himself to his spot in the circle, he glanced around. Had he not been a hair's breadth away from collapsing in agony, he would have been amused by the sight of some thirty witches and wizards in a circle, some hunched over in various amounts of discomfort, others simply sitting in the gritty sand. Between each cadet and the next was a gap of several feet, and the entire circle was about twenty metres across. In the centre stood the Caretaker, who had just finished etching a few runes into the sand by his feet.

"I don't think you've yet grasped the concept of teamwork."   
  
Moreau snorted and rolled his eyes.

"It's bad enough that you screw yourselves by fiddling around during training. But it's a completely different level of treachery to screw over your partner. Your partner is the person to your left. Your job is to shield your partner," he finished as he brandished his wand.

"Protect your partner!" the Caretaker shouted, flicking his wand and releasing a wave of white energy.

" _ Protego Alium _ ," Ezra said with as much force he could muster. A pale yellow bubble materialised around his target, Kovacs, just in time to absorb some of the magic headed her way —unfortunately, not all of it, as she was knocked sideways by the spell. Behind him, Devenish must have been mostly successful, because Ezra himself was only pushed back by a foot or so. 

"Moreau, you selfish arsehole, I said to shield your partner, not yourself. Lovell, way too slow on the uptake," their instructor said. "And Rowe, pick up your fucking game!"

"Rowe," Kovacs hissed so that only he could hear, "I swear if you fuck this up again I will castrate you."

"Shield!"

To Ezra's immense relief, his next shield was a strong yellow colour, singing with a resounding  _ zing! _ as it deflected the next hex.

"Moreau, are you trying to shield Pilkington or maim her? My God."

Their instructor huffed, and after fixing Moreau with another stone-cold glare, he raised his wand again.

"Shield!"

#

"... _ Imperium _ ...  _ Regnum _ ...  _ Arbitrium _ ... thirty-two!" they shouted in unison as they finished yet another press-up.

"Shield!" their instructor suddenly yelled.

Ezra instantly cast a shield around him and held it as a series of fireballs rushed over him.

They had been doing variants of shielding exercises for the past several days; he was sure that for the rest of his life he would flinch every time he heard the word 'shield.'

To be honest, he was quite surprised that most of the Auror trainees had so far survived the wrath of the Caretaker during these exercises. Well, except Moreau. During their first group shielding exercise, he had been summarily expelled from the island when it became clear that the only person he was interested in shielding was himself.

"Glad to see you're paying attention," the Caretaker said. "Up! Down! Down!"

Three more hexes avoided —or, in Olaru's case, shielded.

"Olaru, I swear to God. Are you here just to make me miserable?" the instructor asked with a pained expression.

"No, Caretaker."

"Did Director Rookwood put you up to this? I bet he's paying you under the table just to irk me."

"No, Caretaker..."

"Director Rookwood isn't secretly transferring gold to your Gringotts account every time you do something to anger me?"

"No, sir..."

"Because if he was, you'd probably be the richest fucking Romanian alive. Well, that's not saying much, I guess. I am just honestly baffled —what part of 'up' and 'down' do you not understand?"

"Sorry, sir, it's just habit," the boy responded with a grimace.

"Yeah, a habit to not follow instructions. I swear, if I see that shit again, I will fuck you."

The exercise resumed, with now four different interwoven components: up, down, shield, and press-up. 

To make matters worse, the Caretaker would sometimes wait until midway down a press-up before throwing a hex, forcing the trainees to drop to the ground as they conjured the strongest shields they could muster.

In all honesty, this was largely an agility exercise. The Shield Charms themselves weren't difficult to cast; they were just difficult to cast  _ quickly enough _ . Similarly, it wasn't that hard to dodge curses high or low, but when the Caretaker was casting them... every millisecond counted. Each millisecond was the difference between a moderate amount of pain and an exorbitant amount of pain.

And that was what had turned this exercise into a trying battle that every cadet was slowly losing. Every subsequent iteration tired them out just a little bit more; made their reaction times just a little bit slower; caused the next spell to come just a little bit closer. For many, it was already too close. Close enough that some cadets were discreetly, nonverbally, casting Shield Charms in a panic, just in case. Fortunately, it seemed that no-one had had to cash out on their insurance policy... yet.

Ezra dropped to the ground yet again as a vivid red Stunner screamed past the back of his head. To his right side he felt more than heard a soft  _ tingle _ , but he couldn't identify the source of it. Actually, he had a good idea of what it was, but he hoped he was mistaken.

"Stop," the Caretaker said simply. "What was that?"

In an impressive imitation of a Lethifold herd, the cadets didn't say a word. Didn't move. Didn't breathe. 

"Perhaps it was my imagination. I apologise. It's been a stressful week for me. I'm just so tired. I must have  _ hallucinated _ that one of you catastrophic failures blocked my curse with a Shield-Skin Charm to cover up the fact that you're too slow to get the hell out of the way. That must be it, right?"

Silence.

"Of course it's not," the man said with a sigh. "Olaru, get up. You've had your chances. You're just too damn stubborn to do what you're told."

The Romanian shakily rose to his feet and glared at the instructor, who tossed him his wand. The boy looked down at the wand in his hand and muttered something under his breath.

"What was that, boy? I couldn't hear you," the Caretaker growled with narrowed eyes.

Olaru swept his hand through his crew-cut hair, and finally spoke. "I don't think you get it, sir. A real duellist knows that a good shield is far more consistent than trying to dodge, which can leave you vulnerable to followup spells."

The Caretaker appraised the boy for a long moment before crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Is that so?" He suddenly flourished his wand across his chest and upward, shouting " _ Flagrum Inflammare _ !"

A whip of seeming liquid fire spouted from the tip of the Caretaker's wand, and he snapped it down toward Olaru.

" _ Aqua Parma _ !" To his credit, Lucian Olaru immediately conjured a dome of frothing water above his head, which absorbed and extinguished the flame with a loud hiss.

Ezra quickly backed away from the battle; he had no interest in becoming a casualty in the face of the Caretaker's incessant desire to prove a point. He didn't even bother keeping track of the spells cast, but instead watched as Olaru did his best to shield against them. The hexes sent his way rapidly became more frequent, dangerous, and varied; no matter how good the Romanian was, it was clear he was slowly tiring.

Suddenly, a radiant spear of white light smashed through Olaru's shield, boring an ephemeral hole into his bicep and searing the pale flesh around it. The boy yelped and dropped his wand, before —

" _ Crucio _ !" the Caretaker snarled.

Olaru fell to the ground and screamed, but only for a moment, as the Caretaker quickly lifted the curse. He panted and awkwardly rolled to his stomach before unsteadily pushing himself back to his feet.

Ezra stared in abject horror, jaw to the floor, at the scene in front of him. As the shock seemed to wear off from those around him, he quickly shut his mouth —just in case anyone else watching.

"I've already said it once, you stupid gypsy —Aurors don't duel. We fight," he said with a stony face. "Seems like shields aren't everything, are they?"

It came as no surprise when the ground behind Olaru rumbled and groaned, eventually giving way to a human-sized plant that captured the boy in its large dome-flowers. With nary a sound, it turned and hauled its way toward the barracks.

" _ Au commande _ !" the Caretaker snarled at the disorganised recruits. "When I tell you to dodge, you dodge. You don't backtalk. You don't analyse the situation like you're a bloody Arithmancer. And you most certainly don't shield. You fucking dodge!

"Do you know why there are no Aurors who second-guess orders? It's because they're dead. An Auror follows orders without question. If you can't do that, then you're not fit for the job."

#

"You know, it's been ages since I've been for a proper swim," Devenish said as she searched through her dragon-skin knapsack with growing frustration.

"Stop being so melodramatic," Yaxley scoffed. "We've only been here two weeks. Unless you live in the ocean or something?"

Parkinson and Lestrange snickered but Yaxley just glared at them in turn.

"Greece, actually," the slender girl responded. "Anyway, I'm going for a quick dip. Anyone coming?"

"Are you insane? You're going to get us  _ all  _ kicked out," Kovacs hissed, jumping to her feet. "I don't give a fuck about the Caretaker and his ridiculous rules but I don't fancy failing out due to your obsession with  _ the beach _ ." Kovacs was absolutely livid, but without a functioning wand to back her up, her threats didn't carry as much as they would have otherwise.

"What, you think he's patrolling the beach at night because he's bloody bored? Fine, stay here. Anyone else coming?"

"I'll come," Pilkington said after a moment, rather quietly, as if not wanting the others to hear her.

Weasley expressed interest as well, followed by Jarrett, who eventually convinced Vance to come by calling him several species of chicken. Against his better judgement, Ezra decided to come along. He needed some fresh air anyway.

A few others agreed to join the expedition, but most stayed behind. A select few were appalled at the ridiculous activity, a good number were simply indifferent, and the remainder were already asleep.

The barracks was located at the edge of a steep cliff overlooking the grimy beach below. When visiting the shore, the Caretaker usually brought them by way of a slow-winding path that curved behind the Mess and snaked the long way around the back of the cliff: a detour that added an extra kilometre to their agenda. For tonight's venture, however, the small group of cadets opted to cut out the middleman and instead descend to the shore via the twisting set of almost-stairs built into the face of the cliff. A much more treacherous route, but far quicker.

Though the moon was in the first quarter, it was almost entirely unhelpful as they stumbled their way down the shoddily-carved path. It was still in the east quadrant of the sky, its rays blocked by the face of the cliff itself. More than once the tense silence was broken by a muttered obscenity, and each time, Ezra feared that they had been just a bit too loud.

Ezra was quite pleased, and more than a little surprised, when they made it to the beach without any broken limbs —and, more importantly, without an angry Caretaker at their heels.

"Oh, Hippogriff dung —I didn't bring my swimsuit," Pilkington said in a small voice.

"It's fine, I didn't either," Devenish said as she expertly twisted her dark hair into a bun. "Couldn't find the bloody thing."

Without another word, she shrugged her robe off and swiftly discarded the remainder of her clothes into a pile by her feet.

Jarrett and Vance goggled, and Weasley's eyes widened and he studiously looked at the ground.

Ezra stared too, but not at Devenish or the ground. Instead, he watched with a groan as Jarrett and Vance continued to ogle at the girl like fools. It was barely bright enough to safely walk without falling, much less see anything besides a slightly-contoured silhouette of the Greek girl's body. He wasn't sure what they were thinking.

"No point in staring, Vance. Atherton. You a bunch of fucking prudes?" said Devenish. And with that, she turned and walked toward the water.

"Fine by me," Jarrett said with a leer, following Devenish's example.

When Jarrett had entered the water, he turned back and half-yelled, "You all statues or something? Vance, what the arse are you waiting for?"

"Uh," he mumbled. "No thanks, I'm good here."

"You a pansy or something? I promise I won't make fun of your tiny prick."

Vance hesitated, glancing back and forth between Jarrett and Devenish in the water. "I'm actually feeling a bit ill. I'm going to go back. I'll see you sods later." With that, he turned and almost ran back toward the makeshift path up the cliff.

"What was..." Scarlett began to ask before trailing off.

"I have no idea. But I'm getting in," Pilkington said resolutely. She walked a short distance from the group before dropping her robes to the ground. She turned and fixed Weasley with a stare before sauntering to the water's edge.

Weasley largely succeeded in adopting a poker face as he drank in the nude form —silhouette—of Pilkington. In response to her unvoiced challenge, he resolutely dropped his clothes to the sand and followed after her.

Atherton and Scarlett, apparently uncomfortable with the prospect of being so exposed, chose to keep their undies, and they too headed for the water.

When it was just Ezra and Bennett remaining (he didn't know where the other twin was), the girl turned to face Ezra and fixed him with a strong stare.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"You know," she said demurely as she unbuttoned her robe, keeping eye contact with Ezra. "Ciara said you played tough to get..." She unclasped her bra but didn't remove it.

"Ciara?" he asked dumbly.

"My sister, you dolt." 

Oh. Dennett.

The girl stepped forward, and when she was nearly touching him, she let her brassiere and knickers finally fall to the sand below. She pressed herself against Ezra and wrapped her arm around his back, pulling him forward until he could feel  _ all  _ of her.

He shook his head from his stupor and clenched his jaw. Carefully, he reached behind his back and grabbed her wrist, momentarily pulling her even tighter against him (to her apparent pleasure), but then unwrapped her arm from him and pushed her back.

"I told your sister I'm not interested, thanks," he said coldly. "And the same for you. I have  _ some _ standards."

Bennett gasped and swung her hand forward, slapping him quite soundly on the cheek. With narrowed eyes, she said, "And to think my sister was interested in you. I suspect you're nothing but a poofter. Too fucking bad for you."

She dashed off to the water, leaving Ezra alone. With a sigh, he stripped to his underpants and followed.

He gasped as he hit the water —it was colder than he'd like—but soon acclimated after splashing around a bit. He was no swimmer, but he ducked under a few times for the feel of it. When he came up to the surface after the third or fourth time, he took a quick look around.

Devenish —or, he presumed it was her; it was quite difficult to see—was gracefully swimming some ways from the shore. Atherton and Scarlett were wading near the shoreline, quietly talking. He wrinkled his face in disgust as he found Bennett. She had quickly made her way to Jarrett and had lost no time in contracting his aquatic  _ services _ . The girl had her back against the wizard, and was moaning in sync with his repeated thrusts. Jarrett caught his eye and, best he could tell, winked.

#

"What's got your knickers in a twist, Weasley?" Appleby asked quietly. The two boys were walking a scant few feet ahead of Ezra, on their way to the quad for today's first torture session. "You've been glaring daggers at her all morning."

Ezra groaned. He wasn't in the mood to listen to more drama courtesy of the Pilkington Fan Club.

"Oh, shove off," the redhead spat, but most of the venom in his voice was lacking.

"Does that mean I'm free to take her for myself?"

Weasley responded with a middle finger.

"Whatever," Appleby said with a shrug.

After a long silence, Weasley spoke again. "I wish I knew what was going on in her head. Last night, when I asked her —"

"Wait, when did you talk with her last night?"

"Oh..." Weasley furtively glanced around and leaned in, whispering frantically to the boy. Ezra couldn't make out the words but he had a fair idea what was being said.

"You what?!" Appleby exploded.

"Shh, shut up... Anyway, she's —she's gorgeous! You should've seen her..."

"Yeah. I should have..." he said darkly.

"I swam up to her and we talked for a minute, but... well, she brushed me off and said, 'maybe later.' Yeah, right, I've heard that before."

"She's a right prick tease, that's for sure. You know what," Appleby said after a moment. "I'll... talk to her."

Weasley didn't have a chance to respond, as they'd just arrived at the quad.

Just as they split into ranks and assumed their standard positions, the Caretaker strode forward out of the darkness. Today, he seemed to be carrying a staff of some sort. Or what Ezra presumed was a staff —he doubted the man had much use otherwise for a fancy stick with blue runes carved into it. Silently, the Caretaker appraised the twenty-seven in front of him.

"So? How was it?"

No one responded, but their silence was less out of shyness and more due to not knowing what the hell the Caretaker was talking about.

"You know. The late-night swim? I always found it a bit chilly for my taste."

"Oh, bugger me fucking twice," Kovacs snarled, white sparks dancing from the tip of her training wand. "I told you you'd get us kicked out," she hissed at Devenish.

"Jarrett?" the Caretaker fixed an eye on the boy.

"It was... wet." He smirked at his double entendre.

" _ Wet _ ? My God, a bloody miracle," the Caretaker deadpanned. "Shit, if I'd known how much you lot enjoyed the waterfront, we'd have spent more time down there! Well?" he asked when no one responded. "No time like the present. Let's have a beach day!"

And so they marched down the long, winding path until the ground beneath them slowly turned from stone into sand. Once they arrived at the foot of the cliff, the cadets split into ranks again and waited silently for their next instruction.

"I love the beach. Don't you?"

"Yes, Caretaker!" they shouted.

"Beaches are quite wonderful places, because they have lots of..." He looked around expectantly.

"...sun?" Parkinson dumbly asked.

"No, you tart, are you retarded? The sun's not even gonna rise for another three hours."

"Sand?" Robbins asked hopefully.

"No, you bloody imbeciles. Water!" The Caretaker cradled his head in his hands as if he was experiencing a sudden onset headache. Which, Ezra thought, he actually may have been. "If this is Britain's best, then I'm scared for the future. Maybe I'll move to Bulgaria, get a job there, working with actual real wizards."

The instructor took a deep breath and shook his head to clear it. "Okay. I'm going to set up for the exercises. You lot will do press-ups until I'm done. You will stop  _ only _ when I am done. Understood?"

"Yes, Caretaker!"

"You had better pray I remember how to carve these runes..." he muttered as he walked off.

And off they went. " _ Imperium _ ...  _ Regnum _ ...  _ Arbitrium _ ... four!  _ Imperium _ ...  _ Regnum _ ...  _ Arbitrium _ ... eight!"

Fortunately, it seemed the Caretaker had not forgotten how to carve the runes after all. By the time they had reached eighty-four press-ups, he had completed his preparations and called them to a halt. 

"Line up, one line, facing the water," the Caretaker instructed. "One metre apart."

Once he ensured that they were arranged properly, he walked down to the shore and waded into the sea until the water reached up to his knees. Raising his staff high above his head, he started reciting a long incantation in a language Ezra didn't recognise. The water surrounding the wizard began to froth and slowly swirl in a vortex. Finally, with a grunt, he brought the staff down and embedded it into the sand by his feet so that it was largely submerged; only the azure bulb poked out of the water.

The Caretaker backed up to where the cadets were standing and silently checked that they were all within the confines of the perimeter defined by the runes he had engraved into the sand. Then, raising his wand and off-hand together, he made one final invocation.

" _ Arch _ _ ízei i kataigída _ !"

"That's Greek..." Devenish said absently. 

The whirlpool of water began to rise, hugging the staff that was orchestrating the ceremony. The twisting vortex of water slowly reached up to the sky, but in the darkness, it was impossible to tell just how far up it extended.

And then —Ezra looked up as he felt the first drop of water hit his cheek. Followed by several more on his head and shoulders.

It had started to rain.

"Cadets!"

"Yes, Caretaker!"

"You will learn to protect yourselves in the worst of environments, natural or otherwise. Today, there will be no prompts, no commands. Defend yourselves however you see fit. Begin!"

Before he had even finished saying the word, the Caretaker let forth with a barrage of steel arrows. The fact that they were conjured did not make them any less real —and deadly. They sailed through the air, ready to puncture the flesh and organs of any unwary wizard or witch unfortunate enough to be in their path.

" _ Murum Ferru _ s!" Ezra shouted, dropping to his knee while twisting his wand abruptly clockwise. A small but very thick iron plate appeared in front of him, letting loose a chorus of  _ pings _ as a parade of arrows smashed into it, after which they fell innocuously to the ground and vanished.

A series of (relatively) harmless area-wide Blasting Curses followed, all of which were quickly parried. The following Flame Charm was easily mitigated by an impressive array of Aquafor shields linked end-to-end, courtesy of a well-coordinated group of Auror cadets.

The instructor then snapped his arm upward as if rearing back to whip someone, but no spell came. Ezra hesitated just a moment, but that moment was enough to cost him his balance, and dignity, as a wave of energy blasted him from behind. Scrambling back to his feet, he frantically cast a spherical shield, which, though much weaker than its directionalised counterpart, had the added benefit of blocking spellfire from all angles. His gamble paid off, and the next unseen wave of energy only shoved him off-balance instead of completely knocking him off his feet.

The rain had gradually increased in ferocity and decreased in temperature; what had started off as a mild downpour was now an icy, and dangerous, rainstorm. The freezing water that assaulted his face and chest sucked the energy from him and made it terrifyingly difficult to breathe. Amidst the intensifying storm, the Caretaker had not let up on the magnitude or frequency of the spells he was casting. Hex after curse after jinx was thrown his way, only to be absorbed, deflected, or reflected by any one of the various shields that Ezra could conjure.

"Vance, where's your head?" the Caretaker yelled over the sound of the rain. "Now isn't the time to be a little bitch. Lovell, that's the worst bloody Mirror Shield I've ever seen!"

Suddenly, the rain drops began to solidify, freezing into a nasty combination of sleet and hail.

"I suggest you either multitask or evolve harder heads!" the instructor shouted with apparent glee as he released a few more Flame Charms.

When he had a moment to spare, Ezra erected a weak shield above his head. It would only partially stem the torrent of hail for now, but he couldn't afford to try to strengthen it right now. 

"Damn it, Lovell, stop fucking using that spell if you can't cast it properly!"

The redhead girl snarled and cancelled the Mirror Shield, instead conjuring a standard shield to block the next onslaught of curses.

Ezra grimaced as he miscast his next shield, allowing an incoming hex to impact him unimpeded, raking a large gash down his chest. He hissed and bit his tongue, trying to focus enough to raise his next shield. To his surprise, a pale yellow shield glimmered in front of him just in time to absorb a vicious Reductor Curse. He glanced at Robbins to his side and gave a brief nod of thanks.

"One fuck-up will end your career, Rowe —don't do it again!" the Caretaker yelled.

Without warning, a flash of light —far whiter and brighter than any he had ever seen—assaulted his senses, causing him to gasp in surprise.

_ BOOM! _

The earth shook as a bolt of lightning struck the ground not five metres in front of him. The entire squadron, including the Caretaker, were knocked from their feet, some thrown back several metres. The air crackled around him as if trying to absorb the excess electricity brought forth by the thunderbolt, and excited sparks danced along the ground for several seconds before fading.

"A few metres closer and I'd be having to find a new squadron to train, eh?" the Caretaker asked as he jumped back to his feet. He sent a few mocking Stinging Jinxes towards the downed cadets, laughing as their recipients squawked indignantly. "Don't let your guard down. I could have just as easily disembowelled you."

Ezra rose to his feet as quickly as possible, but not before the Caretaker had finished incanting a rather complicated spell, but to no visible effect.  _ What does it do? _

Fortunately, Ezra was no longer being pelted by a torrent of angry hail, so he could at least focus on —

Wait, what?

He looked up. Indeed, the hail had stopped falling, but  _ why _ ? In the eerie silence, he held his wand at the ready and listened. He heard a jingling, or maybe it was closer to a clinking. Almost as if an army of people were celebrating a toast with some expensive wine.

Almost as if...

"GROUPS!" he screamed as he dove toward Robbins. The cadets quickly coalesced into several clusters of five or six. 

As one, they cried, " _ Valens Aegis _ !"

Five iridescent blue domes appeared on the beachfront, each a result of several overlapping Valence barriers. It was the only shield spell suitable in this situation: most shield charms weren't designed to block physical projectiles, and the ones that did were far too small to be effective here.

Ezra watched as a torrent of glass shards of all shapes and sizes, transfigured from the hail and sleet that had momentarily stopped falling, tore down from the dark sky above. The shimmering barrage of deadly glass quickly descended and whirled around them before finally rushing in, intent to rip to shreds any person dumb enough to get caught out.

Quivering, Ezra stared with wide eyes as spears of glass the size of his forearm impacted with his shield, dissolving into a mist of sand that blasted through and clung to his soaked robes.

But there was no time to congratulate themselves, as the Caretaker released yet another volley of arrows —though this time, they glowed a resplendent white. Ezra jumped away from the group, desperate for some room to manoeuvre. He ducked to avoid one arrow heading straight for his face, then face-planted into the ground to prevent another from puncturing his liver. 

Unfortunately, Bennett tried to block one with a Shield Charm, forgetting that that particular charm was useless against this type of projectile. The offending arrow simply ignored her shield, subsequently impaling itself in her thigh before fading to nothingness. She shrieked and fell to the ground, nursing her leg. 

"That's right, ya harlot, scream! Seems you just enjoy being penetrated. At least, that's what Jarrett thinks!" The Caretaker cackled and fired off a few moderate Reductor Curses.

The freezing wind had picked up, and the hail had transformed back into torrential rain. In a way, the rain was worse, as every single blasted drop of it bit into his skin, numbing it, dulling his senses, slowing his reactions.

Without warning, the sand under his feet exploded in flames, and he had to jump up in the air to give himself time to erect a shield around his boots. To be honest, he almost welcomed the field of fiery sand that lit up the night, as its radiant heat offered a brief respite against the icy rain and searing wind.

His respite was short lived, as a new problem quickly became apparent: the effects of high winds on  _ sand _ . The grungy sand around him lifted into the air and began to whip around, reducing visibility to nearly zero. Flames that once burned on the ground writhed and danced, jumping into the air and latching on to the volatile swarms of sand that flew by. Worse yet, the tiny particles buffeted him without remorse, stinging and rubbing his skin raw. He was forced to screw his eyes shut to keep the sand from finding a new home in his retinas.

So distracted by the change in scenery was he, that he didn't notice the next projectile until it was too late. A small boulder about the size of a Bludger flew out from the grimy yellow curtain and impacted against his left hand, cleanly shattering most of the bones in his wrist and fingers. He screamed, yanking his hand in to cradle it against his chest.

"Rowe, you fucking incompetent," the Caretaker roared over the howling wind, "I will bloody send you home and you can daydream there!"

He had no idea how the instructor could see him, but he needed to stop slipping up; he knew the man didn't make idle threats.

Unfortunately, what had been a difficult exercise in shielding against nonverbal spells had now become downright hellish. He couldn't  _ see _ the instructor. Hell, he couldn't see more than an arm's length in front of him. Worse yet, his hand was a mess, useless, and the intense pain was only dulled by the biting cold settling in.

How he was expected to block spells in these conditions, he had no idea. The best he could do was cast a general, all-purpose shield and hope for the best.

A flurry of Severing Charms emerged from obscurity and tore into his shield which mitigated the bulk of the damage, but not all —he now sported a chain of thankfully shallow cuts down his abdomen and thighs.

But no shield could have prepared him for what came next: a wall of water so tall that he couldn't see where it ended and where the sky began; so wide, it could have engulfed the entire length of the beach without the slightest care; so dark, it might have been mistaken for one of Azkaban's walls.

"Oh, my God..." Ezra couldn't help but mutter.

Powell's high-pitched scream pierced through the night, catalysing cries of panic from several other cadets.

"What the bloody —"

"He'll kill us —he's trying to kill us!"

He wracked his brain for a suitable shield spell, but in his panic, could think of none. A quick search for nearby cover was equally fruitless. He turned and scrambled toward the cliffs, as if that extra few metres would change anything.

It didn't.

The mountain of water crashed down upon the beach. The force of a thousand suns bore down on him, crushing his body like a dragonfly in the face of a Hungarian Horntail. Any air that had been in his lungs before the Great Flood had long been forced out, and he tumbled and flailed through the water with no control over where he was going. He was completely disoriented; he didn't know which way was up, or even how far he was from the surface —or the ground.

After a long eternity, the terrific undercurrents calmed, allowing him a moment of reprieve. He still could not see, nor could he breathe, but at least it seemed marginally less likely that he would inadvertently be smashed into a wayward rock and shatter his skull.

He drifted about awkwardly until his back pressed up against something... firm enough to push back, but soft enough to feel unstable. Lungs burning, he quickly brought his good hand around to steady himself against the sandy floor. Then, Ezra pushed off and rotated his body, bracing his legs against the ground and pushing up. His head broke the surface and, amidst spluttering coughs, he drank in fresh oxygen to soothe his lungs.

The surge quickly receded for the most part, leaving him drenched head to toe and freezing. The water level had settled to about his knees, making it quite awkward and difficult to move around. His soaked robes now added some five or ten kilos to his body weight, making him feel rather sluggish in his motions. It seemed like most of the other cadets had recovered from the aquatic massacre, some better than others.

Ezra heard a panicked splashing just behind him, and he whipped around to see a writhing black mass of robes thrashing about just under the surface. As quickly as possible without falling over, Ezra slogged his way over to the struggling cadet. It was too dark to see who it was, but with gritted teeth, he reached down, grabbed the cadet by the neck of the robes, and pulled up as best he could.

"Vance —the water isn't even that deep!" Ezra yelled to the sopping boy over the roar of the rain.

"Bugger your mother!" Vance snarled back while coughing up the water he'd ingested.

Ezra tuned out his sputtered threats while he tried to assess the situation. Just  _ what the fuck  _ was the Caretaker thinking? And more importantly, how long until he could get his hand fixed? He grimaced as he looked down at the shattered limb tightly braced against his chest. Blood still poured out from various gashes, though not as vociferously as before. Trying to refrain from retching, he cast a rudimentary healing charm but groaned when it didn't work. Stupid bloody training wands. Could cast every shield-class spell known to man, but not a single, measly healing charm.

"Enjoy your little swim, did you?" the invisible voice of the Caretaker cut through the rumbling storm. "Break's over, arseholes."

Ezra wasn't fooled by the small jet of water rushing toward him. He knew that it was so hot it was nearly at boiling point. More importantly, he knew that it was under such immense pressure that it could easily tear off his skin if it hit him just right. A swift Murus Spell was sufficient to block it.

"Sturch, Vance —you better get your shit together. That was the easiest spell I've sent all morning!"

Ezra turned to look at Vance, who was decidedly pale. The boy was applying pressure to his shoulder, presumably where he'd been hit by the jet of water.

Vance only barely managed to parry the next two curses, but blundered on the third one, resulting in a nasty black bruise on his neck. The subsequent Concussive Hex knocked him back, causing him to crash into the water with a loud splash. After a moment of floundering, the gawky boy gasped and righted himself, frantically shooting glances around as if he were looking for the person responsible for his latest misstep.

"What the hell is your problem?!" their instructor's voice rang from above. 

Ezra snapped his head up. The Caretaker had flown in on a stocky combat broom and was now hovering a few metres above their heads. He was glaring down at Vance, wand posed as if ready to hex the boy for his next slip-up —which was entirely plausible, Ezra decided.

"I —I lost my footing, sir," Vance said with a slight stutter.

"Don't feed me dragon dung, Vance. You know what I think? I think you've gotten  _ tired _ , and you simply aren't interested in being here anymore."

"That's bullshit, Caretaker —"

"Then show me!"

With that, the Caretaker swung his wand in a wide sweeping motion and then jabbed it straight up into the air.

Dozens of gargantuan columns of water —Ezra didn't quite know what else to call them—rushed down from the heavens, each one positioned directly above a recruit. Ezra looked straight up at his own. Wider than he was tall, and sparkling with raw energy, the plume rocketed down and would have slammed into him had he not cast an Umbrella Charm. An incredibly overpowered Umbrella Charm; but an Umbrella Charm nonetheless. A charm that took every ounce of his energy to maintain. To let it falter was not an option. As it was, the force of the water crashing into the forcefield buckled Ezra's legs, driving him to his knees. 

He spared a glance to the side to see that Vance was faring just as poorly against his own waterfall: in fact, quite a bit worse. The boy's arm was shaking as he tried to hold his shield up, but without a steady wand to back the flow of magic, the other wizard's Umbrella Charm was wavering. Visible cracks had appeared in the shimmering barrier, allowing hefty torrents of water to squeeze through and wash against him.

Ezra gritted his teeth as the burning pain in his arm reminded him of his own reality. The physical mass of the waterfall pounding against his shield jarred his shoulder, making the charm harder and harder to maintain as the seconds passed. Given the state of his left hand, he certainly couldn't use it to help steady the increasingly difficult barrier, much less switch wand arms entirely.

But the more salient issue was the rising level of the water around him. The Umbrella Charm prevented the water from crashing directly on his head, but it still had to all go somewhere: and the only somewhere to go was all around him. By now, the murky, blisteringly cold water was up to his chest, and it was only rising.

An uncharacteristically feminine whimper slipped out of Vance, who was visibly shaking —whether from chill, exertion, or fear, Ezra couldn't tell. Possibly a combination of all three. The boy could no longer be classified as just "pale"; a better description would have been "alabaster." His attempted Umbrella Charm had long lost its right to the title, as it had since been reduced to a wispy, misshapen dome that was almost entirely transparent.

And then Vance's charm met the end of its life, as suddenly, the dome disappeared entirely. The defiant torrent of water crashed down onto him, instantly knocking him down and pushing him below the surface. 

Ezra groaned and strained against the downfall for another eternity before it suddenly lifted. The water level was all the way up to his neck, and he was sure his feet and left hand were fully numb from the cold by now. 

He watched as the Caretaker swooped down toward where Vance had been standing. With a wave of his wand, the water below the large wizard simply  _ receded _ , leaving behind a circular dry patch of sand surrounded by a colossal wall of writhing water. Not even the rain above was able to enter the dessicated area; it hit an invisible dome above and was deflected off to the sides.

In the centre of the circle lay the unconscious form of Vance. The boy, who was quite thin to start with, appeared positively emaciated in contrast to the large, sodden heap of robes clinging to him.

The Caretaker dismounted from his broom and walked forward to the boy, whereupon he stared at him and then kicked him. "Get up, Vance. You don't deserve a nap."

The boy moaned and shifted, but otherwise didn't react.

" _ Aguamenti _ ," the Caretaker incanted in a bored tone.

A small jet of water splashed in Vance's face, who shot up with a flinch and a yelp. He looked up to see the instructor looming over him, then glanced around at the swells of water magically kept at bay. With no small terror in his eyes, Vance gave a cry and scrambled backward as fast as he could until he collided with the water barrier behind him. Then he started to hyperventilate and quickly rolled to his side, whereupon he began to retch up a combination of water and... whatever else.

"What, are you scared of a bit of  _ agua _ ?" asked the Caretaker with a sharp edge in his voice.

"N —no, I'm okay," Vance said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

The Caretaker flicked his wand again at the wizard, who reacted in a panic, jumping back to avoid the spurt of water. 

Vance glared at the instructor, but its effect was greatly dampened by the accompanying whimper and chattering of teeth.

"You can barely function during a bloody  _ beach exercise _ . Pathetic. If you're gonna wet your pants at the mere sight of water, what the hell good are you in a fight? Merlin's balls..."

The Caretaker shook his head and remounted his broom, lazily pushing off to return to his position by the shore.

"Sir, I'll be fine —"

"OH REALLY?!" the Caretaker screamed, pivoting around on his broom. He flicked his wand upward, releasing the invisible forces that held the water at bay around Vance. 

Vance, in turn, stared despondently at the oncoming flood. Weakly raising his arm, he sealed his fate at Aurum Vale by croaking out a single word: " _ Protego _ ..." 

His attempt at a simple shield demonstrated in three different ways just how brain-addled he was at the moment.

The first was that the Shield Charm was not designed to block physical matter of any kind. Its prevalence and popularity came from its ease of use and relative versatility in a fight. This versatility did not extend to non-magical entities.

The second was that the Shield Charm was a barrier intended to ward off attacks only in the direction the wand pointed. A typical such shield was only about as wide as a person, though there had been rare reports where immensely powerful wizards had erected barriers several metres in diameter.

The third was that the Shield Charm cast by Vance was simply a failure. So distressed was he that he couldn't summon the necessary focus to invoke, much less maintain, the charm. Indeed, even if it had been the right choice of spell, the Caretaker would have laughed his arse back to Suffolk.

In fact, that's exactly what the Caretaker did. He laughed so hard that he nearly fell off of his broom. Only once the man righted himself did he quickly sober, watching impassively as the surge of water relentlessly overtook Vance, swallowing him whole. Within seconds, the surface had stilled, save for the chaotic ripples resulting from the impact of the rain.

Ambrose, who had been observing the whole ordeal, made a move forward, but the Caretaker held up his hand.

"What are you doing? The boy says he'll be fine. Who am I to deny him his chance to prove me wrong?" His grotesque smirk belied any authenticity his words might have suggested.

Ezra impatiently watched the debacle before him, though in a way, he felt surprisingly numb to the whole situation. That may have been a result of his physical numbness: he could no longer feel any part of his body below his neck. He wasn't even shivering anymore. He frowned and did his best to shake his wand arm in the water, but shaking a part of the body that felt physically nonexistent was more difficult than he cared to admit.

Finally, the instructor spoke.

"No? Hmph. That's what I bloody thought."

With a flick of his wand, the instructor summoned the unconscious Vance from the water and caught him by the neck of his robes. Then, he turned and flew off, disappearing into the murky curtain of rain.

The cadets shivered and shuffled uncomfortably, glancing around blankly. They weren't sure what to do now. Where had the Caretaker gone? When would he be back?

Ezra painfully turned until he could see Robbins. The boy looked up and caught his eye for just a moment, and nearly imperceptibly shrugged.

The unasked question was quickly answered when Ezra heard a quite unmistakable and very unwelcome voice pierce through the blanket of wind, rain, and despair:

" _ Astrap _ _ és _ !"

As soon as the spell rang out, Devenish gasped and incanted, " _ Flexilis Lorica _ ."

Ezra narrowed his eyes. The girl had just cast a Rubberskin Jinx —usually cast on children as a minor nuisance. A prank, more than anything else. Why the training wands had that spell in their arsenal, he had no idea. More importantly, he wasn't sure why Devenish had used it. The Caretaker's spell must have been Greek one, he decided—and the girl had recognised it.

Without a better idea to go on, Ezra clumsily turned his wand on himself and cast the jinx. He felt his skin thicken and become more... well, rubbery. It was certainly a weird sensation, but not an unpleasant one. One fortunate side effect was that he immediately felt a bit warmer, despite the water up to his chin. Apparently, rubber was a better heat insulator.

Insulator.

He gasped in dread and looked up. The sky was flickering with flashes of white light. Then, in a moment of unreserved fury, it struck, sending a strike of lightning down to the beach below. The beach that was now flooded with twenty-six Auror cadets caught in the water.

Fortunately, the rubber skin seemed to do its job. No one had been fried to a crisp. Yet.

Another bolt came down. Then another. The effects of each were systematically mitigated by the cadets' prudently-cast Rubberskin Charms, thanks to Devenish.

But there was a new problem: the water level. Not only was it continually rising, but it was rising faster and faster. For some ridiculous reason, the rubber skin made Ezra  _ heavier _ , and furthermore, it made it far too awkward to manoeuvre. He had already discarded his robes, as they just got in the way as he tried to tread water. But by now, he also had to cancel the jinx between each lightning strike, pull himself back up to the surface to get a breath of air, and reapply the jinx.

After what could have been a hundred lightning bolts, just when he thought he could no longer supply the energy needed to keep afloat, the storm let up. The sky stopped flickering, the rain abated, and the dark clouds withdrew, revealing the pink light of an early dawn.

Ezra sighed in relief, cancelling the Rubberskin Charm for the last time. The water was quickly receding, as evidenced by the rapidly approaching sight of the Caretaker and the barren beachfront below. Finally, they "landed," and Ezra had no qualms in immediately dropping to the soggy, sandy ground in exhaustion —broken hand be damned.

"Hey, Devenish," the Caretaker called as he approached the group.

Devenish, for her part, was on the ground, gasping for breath as she sat propped against a large boulder. With a groan, she rose to her feet to face the instructor.

"Do you still like swimming?" he asked with a sneer and then a bark of laughter.

When he turned around to mock Parkinson behind him, Devenish raised her middle finger at his back.

Once the Caretaker's attention was occupied elsewhere, Kovacs stomped up to Devenish, winded her arm back, and slapped the girl as hard as she could. "Fuck you and your bloody midnight swims —I bloody told you lot!" she snarled with a murderous glare at Rowe and Atherton, the only other members of the evening expedition that were in the vicinity. Her face was a dangerous shade of red, and her knotted hair fluttered in the air as she emitted small bursts of accidental magic. "Fuck  _ all _ of you! Prancing around like the world revolves around —"

"Kovacs, why the tirade?" The Caretaker had returned to watch the confrontation. He was, apparently, quite amused at the whole thing. "Really, no need to get your knickers in a twist. Here, this should help." With a chuckle, he flicked his wand in her direction.

Like most of the cadets, Kovacs had discarded the majority of her outerwear during the last phase of the exercise to make it easier to keep afloat. As such, when she had approached Ezra and the others, she had been clad only in a bra and knickers. And now, after the Caretaker's spell, only the former.

With a shriek, she snatched the nearest robe from the ground and used it to cover herself, but not before giving everyone a first-class view.

"No need to be shy, Kovacs," Boot said salaciously, waggling his eyebrows.

Kovacs took two steps toward Boot and brought her knee —hard—into his groin. He shrieked and fell to the ground, whereupon Kovacs kicked him twice more.

Boot was curled in the foetal position, whimpering. Finally, he peeled open an eye and stared pleadingly toward the Caretaker.

"What, you want me to yell at her?" the large man asked as if surprised. "That was an inappropriate remark, Boot. You probably deserved it. Besides," he said, absently twirling Kovacs' knickers around his wand as he walked off, "I wouldn't want people to think I tolerated sexism."


	5. ...and Sword

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** This chapter contains a potentially triggering scene.

Ezra crumpled the piece of parchment in his hand and subtly flicked it onto Robbins' bed as he walked to the loo.

Checking to make sure no one was watching, he abruptly turned and left the barracks, heading for the steep path that led down the face of the cliff to the beach.

Kovacs would have a fit if she knew he was out here not twenty-four hours after the last escapade. But he didn't particularly care.

As he descended the treacherous slope, he began to reconsider his decision. The slippery, craggy path was tough enough to navigate in good conditions, but his legs were still quite wobbly from the afternoon's training. The Caretaker had had them jogging up and down the beach in knee-high water. Not only had the shackling spell been active, but it had actually been a new variant that sent electric shocks upon misstep. Given that the salty water was quite conductive, it sufficed to say that it had not been a pleasant afternoon.

"Agh," he yelped as he tripped over a wayward rock and fell face-first into the sand below. He scowled and shakily rose to his feet, spitting out a few mouthfuls of sand. At least his legs had only decided to give out as he had reached the bottom of the path, and not earlier.

He knew that he had about twenty minutes to wait before Robbins arrived—if the Scot was able to make it. In the meantime, Ezra located a small nook at the base of the cliff and sat down in the shadow it casted. No point in being needlessly exposed, especially if the Caretaker _was_ somehow monitoring the beachfront.

The moonlight illuminated the beach in front of him and the waves that lapped up against the shore. It was... peaceful. Serene. Beautiful. To his surprise, it made him miss Hogwarts more than anything. Sitting by the lake and watching the Giant Squid bask in the warm spring sun. Taking an early-morning jog around the Quidditch pitch to clear his head. Even attending the Slug Club with the others—especially Potter and Granger.

Yes, he missed Granger, even if she was still angry at him. She was a clever, sensible witch, one of the few witches he didn't mind hanging out with. Maybe that chapter of his life was complete, but that didn't mean he couldn't cherish it.

But in a way, he missed Harry Potter even more. The real Harry Potter. The Harry Potter that not many people had had a chance to see. Unfortunately, that Potter had been forced out of this world, forced to pay for the crimes of every witch and wizard in Britain. Every witch and wizard in Britain was guilty, whether explicitly or complicitly. How unfair was it to make Potter the scapegoat of it all?

And here he was, Ezra Rowe, over halfway done training to join the Auror force. On the path to join the very group of witches and wizards that had subtly but effectively driven society to where it was today. They were the enablers. They enabled the Minister's despotic rule; the pure-bloods' bigoted views; the citizens' apathetic ignorance.

Ezra was no fool. He knew that he could not single-handedly uproot the oppressive bonds that gripped Britain. But he could certainly try.

He snapped out of his reverie as he heard the soft crunching of rocks indicating Robbins' approach. Suppressing a groan of protest, he stretched his legs and rose to greet him.

"Really?" Robbins asked, holding up the crumpled piece of parchment in the moonlight. "You couldn't just tell me in person?"

Ezra shrugged. "Doesn't hurt to be discreet. Thanks for coming..."

Robbins grunted and crossed his arms in front of his chest, leaning back against the cliff face. "Why did you want to meet?" he asked guardedly.

"You're the one who said we should talk."

Silence stagnated in the air as the two boys stared at each other. Clearly, neither was willing to tip their hand, but Ezra was the first to break.

"Aurum Vale—it's worse than I thought it'd be." A double entendre that, if his suspicions were right, the other boy would pick up on.

The dark look that flitted over Robbins' face was all the confirmation he needed.

"I thought something would change after the war," he continued after a moment of hesitation. He had always been too trusting; it couldn't be helped now. "But it didn't. The Ministry never cared for the safety of its people; for the reconstruction of our society.

"We thought we were at war with Lord Voldemort. But we weren't. We were at war with blood supremacists." Ezra looked up from the ground and met Robbins' gaze. A few stray tears streaked down his cheeks. "And we lost that war."

Robbins stood unmoving for so long that Ezra was beginning to worry that he had been petrified. But finally, the Scot sighed and spoke. "I'm not sure what I plan to do yet, though. This was the furthest I got in my head. Talk about bad planning," he ended with a humourless chuckle.

"I'm just trying to keep my head down until training is over. You should probably do the same," Ezra offered. At Robbins' grunt of assent, he switched topics. "If you don't mind me asking, why are you here?"

Robbins flinched and quickly adopted a stony expression.

"If you don't want to, that's—"

"No. I'll tell you. It's just... difficult to talk about," he said with a vaguely dismissive gesture.

He slunk to a seated position, still leaning back against the cliff face. Ezra did the same, so they sat side-by-side, both hidden in the shadow cast by the rocks around them.

"I'm not sure where to start. Well, I grew up in Scotland, as you might have guessed; near Stirling. My mum's British, and my father is Scottish. When my parents married, mum moved to Stirling to live in the family manor with Father. Father would never consider living anywhere else; it's been in the family for seven generations.

"A few years after I was born, Muggles started building houses in the countryside, where the manor is. Of course, we were well-hidden from them with the usual wards, but both of my parents were quite angry that the Muggles were desecrating the land, so to speak. But we stayed. After all, to leave the ancestral house would be a disgrace to the family name."

Robbins absently began to tap the butt of his wand against his chest as he stared off into space.

"One day when I was about seven, I was playing out near the boundary of our wards and saw a little girl, my age, playing in the forest. I waved at her, but she couldn't see me, so I figured she must have been a Muggle. Father had instructed me not to leave the wards, so I just sat there and watched her. She was running around collecting sticks, then tying them together into little bundles with vines. At one point she started to climb a big tree, but she lost her footing and fell, spraining her wrist. She... she was on the ground, crying. No one came to help her. So I finally got up and went to try to help her. Eventually I walked with her back to her house—it wasn't that far off, just around the base of the hill. Her parents were quite miffed that she had been playing so far from the house, but I guess they were thankful I helped her.

"Her name was Aimee. She had three sisters and two brothers, which meant that she got to play outside, unsupervised, often. Over the next few weeks, we would meet nearly every day to play out in the forest or by her house. We quickly became best friends. When I came home one day, mum was waiting for me—she'd known where I'd been disappearing to. I was worried that she would yell at me, but she just sat down and told me that it wasn't a good idea to associate with Muggles.

"Eventually, Father found out as well, and he whipped me so rough that I was out for two days. He forbade me from ever seeing Aimee again. Naturally, I ignored him and kept seeing her whenever I could. Over the years he got steadily more annoyed when I returned home in the evenings, as if he knew exactly where I'd been. But he didn't punish me again. I assumed that he was just trying to control his temper and let me 'make my own mistakes,' or whatever."

His breath hitched and he paused to wipe something from his eye. With a scowl, he shifted and turned so he was faced away from Ezra.

"One day, when I was ten... it was the very beginning of summer. Father had come to the forest to find me... it was getting late, I think. Aimee and I were running around doing who-knows-what, but he absolutely lost it when he saw that we were holding hands. Holding hands! We're fucking ten years old— _ten_! It's not like it meant a damn thing," he spat.

"Father was furious, so he marched me home and... well, the next afternoon, I was in bed, too injured to move, and in walk my parents. Both of them. After a few minutes of beating around the bush, he finally told me: Aimee had apparently drowned that morning. She had gone swimming in a rough part of the river—unsupervised, of course—and got caught in a nasty current..."

He slowly turned back around and looked up at Ezra with dead eyes.

"But it wasn't until months later that I realised... She didn't drown, Rowe. She couldn't have. There weren't any rivers even remotely near where we lived." The boy laughed, a single, humourless bark.

"I had my suspicions about what had actually happened. I confronted Father about it, and he denied it, of course. But I could see it in his eyes: the hatred, the judgement, the blood of an innocent girl on his hands," he murmured in a hollow voice. "We both knew what he'd done—but the worst part was that he was able to somehow justify it to himself. He saw nothing wrong with what he did.

"I promised myself I would do whatever it took so that something like this never happened again. If that means upending the entirety of wizarding culture, so be it. Maybe it'll take years or decades, I don't know, but I wouldn't ever forgive myself if I didn't try my damnedest. I don't know how to do it, but a foot soldier in the middle of the Ministry seems like a good place to start."

Ezra stared at Robbins in utter disbelief, eyes wide open as if that would allow him to more easily absorb the story. After a long minute of silence, he began to speak.

"Robbins, I'm..."

"Don't bother. I don't want pity. I just want to know that I'm not alone in this."

With a careful shake of his head, Ezra responded, "You're not."

"Good. I've answered your question; now I'd like to ask one of my own." At Ezra's nod, he continued. "You went to Hogwarts. What was Harry Potter like?"

Ezra stiffened.

"That bad?"

"No, it's not that. It's... Sorry." Ezra took a deep breath. "Potter was... hard to describe. He had always been known as the Chosen One, Saviour of the Wizarding World. But when I met him, he seemed anything but. He was quiet, reserved—without the scar on his head, he could have passed for any normal, insular teenager.

"He wasn't the smartest kid in the class. He wasn't the most outspoken. He wasn't the tallest, or strongest, or most popular. On the surface, he was just... average. Yet, there was something about him I just can't explain. He had a way with people; he was unsettlingly _insightful_. Sometimes I felt like he knew me better than I did myself.

"But more than any of that, he was a natural leader. Those who interacted with him were inspired to follow him. His professors respected and guided him. His best friends went to hell and back for him."

"And you?" Robbins asked, fixing him with a flat look.

"As for me... I'll just say that if it weren't for Potter, I wouldn't be here."

When it became clear that Ezra wasn't going to elaborate, Robbins nodded and made to leave. "I hope that something comes of it."

"Me too."

Once the other boy had left, Ezra made sure to wait a quarter hour before beginning his own trek back to the barracks.

Just as he began the hazardous climb up the steep path, his carelessness got the better of him. An unseen root, camouflaged in the darkness, caught his foot as he tried to jump up to a nearby ledge, causing him to trip and twist his ankle. That said, it sure beat slicing his face open on the sharp ledge, something that he was able to just barely avoid by instead arresting his fall with his hands.

Regardless, taking the steep climb up to the barracks was no longer an option. He groaned and subconsciously ran his now blood-smeared hands through his hair, leaving behind streaks of red and white that glimmered in the moonlight. With a final longing glance upward, he turned and limped down the shore in the direction of the main jogging path that connected the beach and the training grounds.

Ezra was quite relieved as the sand slowly shifted into gravel and then compacted dirt. Limping on the beach was not at all a pleasant way to travel. The constantly shifting sands underfoot made it that much harder to keep his balance as he tried to keep traction while favouring his injured foot.

If his father could see him now, half-crawling and half-limping up the hill, he'd probably laugh. The Caretaker would yell at him for bleeding on his precious dirt. Granger would likely give him an exasperated look and leave it at that. And H—

_What was that?_

He was sure he'd heard a noise—it had sounded like a door slamming, or a table falling. The only nearby building was the Mess, and upon closer inspection, he realised that one of the lights inside was on. With a longing glance toward the barracks, Ezra sighed, and against his better judgement, veered toward the Mess to investigate.

When he arrived at the rear side of the building, he sneaked up to one of the windows by the kitchen, careful to stay in the shadows. Unfortunately, in the time it had taken him to get this close, the light he had seen from afar had been extinguished. From his angle, he could just barely make out two silhouetted figures in the storage closet that adjoined the kitchen. There must have been more off to the side, because the shorter of the two figures was talking and gesturing to someone Ezra couldn't see.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" an unseen female voice asked.

"Not me—you," the same figure responded. It sounded like Appleby. "My good mate Weasley has been quite put out that you've been acting a right prick tease."

"So? I'm not here to fuck my way around the barracks. You must be confusing me for the twins."

"Don't worry, Pilkington, I'm not. You're much more of an eyeful than either of them," he said lubriciously as he moved out of Ezra's view, presumably approaching her.

A few chuckles carried around the room. Ezra counted at least three distinct voices.

"Thanks," she spat, "I'm flattered. Now get the—what are you doing?"

"What's it look like? You're too much of a tight-arse for your own good. I'm here to... loosen you up."

Ezra scowled and tried to push open the window, but it was sealed shut. He hit the pane with his bloodied hand as hard as he could, but it didn't give. With no other options, he began to painfully speed-limp around the perimeter of the building to get to the entrance.

"W—wait, Appleby," she said with a quivering voice. "You wouldn't do this to Weasley."

"Fuck Weasley—actually don't, the pleasure's all mine," he said with a chuckle. "You should be grateful. Hughes wanted in but I couldn't have a Halfsie defiling a pure-blood. Distasteful."

"Argh—"

 _Crack!_ The sound of hand meeting skin echoed through the room.

"Get off me!" Pilkington screamed.

"Hold her down!"

Gasping for breath, Ezra finally turned the corner of the wall and slipped through the doorway that had been left ajar, just in time to hear the sound of robes being ripped. He blanched. Carefully, so as not to alert anyone of his presence, he drew his wand and approached the kitchen area as quickly as his bleeding foot would let him.

"I want a go," Rosier was saying.

"Fuck off, wait your turn," the blond responded with sickening malice. "Flip her over..."

"Please," she whimpered. "I'm—I'm sorry for—"

"Too late now, bitch."

She screamed as he started to thrust and moan in pleasure, but one of the boys must have gagged her, because her shouts were soon replaced by muted groans.

Ezra retched when he finally got within hexing distance and could see inside the storage room. On the table, Pilkington was splayed out face down, her robes ripped off. Appleby was taking her from behind, and Nott was at the other end of the table, occupying her mouth. One hand gripped her hair, yanking her head back, and the other held a large, silver knife to her throat as a warning of what would come if she did anything untoward.

Ezra raised his wand, then bit back an oath—the restrictions on magic! Bloody fucking training wand.

Frantically, he limped to the far corner of the Mess, listening bleakly as Appleby finished and invited Jarrett and Rosier to take over amidst much raucous jeering.

With as much strength as he could muster, he gripped the large wooden table and heaved. As if it had been designed with such a purpose in mind, the table finally reached its tipping point and fell over, hitting the ground with a large crash and splitting down the middle.

"What the fuck?!" Jarrett yelled.

Ezra cast a Valence Barrier and an Alium Charm in quick succession, followed by a batch of several other shield charms. Not to protect him, but to produce a resplendent display of lights that shimmered brilliantly throughout the room.

"What's—"

"Shut up, Rosier," Appleby hissed, "I'm getting the hell out."

The boys clamoured for their clothes and noisily ran from the storage closet, through the main dining area, and out the door, with nary a glance behind them.

As soon as he was sure they were gone for good, Ezra made his way to Pilkington. The girl hadn't moved from her previous position and was shivering, but as soon as he entered the room she snapped her head up to see who the newest intruder was.

"What," she said caustically. "Back for more?"

"Pilkington..."

She gaped for a second before unceremoniously getting off of the table, picking up her discarded robes and holding them protectively in front of her.

"Rowe," she said in a shaky voice. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I was outside and saw lights, and... heard voices..." he trailed off.

"And?"

"And what? Pilkington... what they did—"

"I'm not some princess that needs saving. Just... go away," she said stonily. Turning her back, she silently started to pull on her clothes, paying no heed to his presence. When she was done, she just as quietly turned to leave.

As she brushed by Ezra with nary a glance, he held his arm out to block her. "Pilkington."

"What?" she snapped. Her eyes were narrowed, livid, but he didn't miss the unshed tears that had begun to gather there.

He wasn't sure what to say, or do. This was one situation he had never had to deal with—fortunately.

"If you want, I can—"

"No," the girl ground out. "I don't want your anything... just forget this all happened."

"You should tell the Caretaker," he responded flatly, pleadingly.

"Are you fucking dimwitted?" she pulled a knife—the same knife Nott had been using earlier—and pressed it, hard, into his neck. "Rowe, if you mention this to _anyone_ , I swear I will fucking kill you."

"But—"

"No, I'm bloody serious. This is _my_ business, not yours. Now leave me the bloody hell alone."

With a sniff, she fled from the room.

#

"What in Merlin's bollocks did you say to her? She completely avoided me this morning, wouldn't even tell me the time of day."

"I didn't say anything, Weasley—no idea what's got that bint's knickers in a twist."

Ezra had made sure to intentionally tail Weasley and Appleby this morning on the way to morning drill. Every piece of his body screamed at him to haul off and deck the arrogant blond right there—but he knew that would cause more issues than it solved. Unfortunately, he wasn't well-versed in how to approach situations like these. For now, perhaps it was best to be patient.

Rather than defending his attempted-girlfriend-to-be, Weasley just shrugged and heaved a big sigh. "You know, I'm starting to think it's not even worth it."

"How do you mean?" the blond asked with faux confusion.

"Clearly she's not interested in me. I don't know if I should bother," Weasley finally said after a measure of silence.

"Yeah. Yeah, maybe you're right..."

Their conversation trailed off as they reached the quad and split into their usual ranks.

" _Au commande_ ," the Caretaker lazily called. "I find myself disappointed."

When the man didn't elaborate, Hale spoke up. "Why is that, sir?"

"I'm disappointed because today marks the start of phase three of training. Wipe that stupid grin off your face, Sturch, this isn't a bloody party.

"Clearly I've gotten soft in my age, because there are still twenty-six of you disgusting degenerates on my island. That doesn't mean you're better than an average squadron of recruits. No, it just means you've wasted even more of my time than anticipated. Once I find out who's hiding their ineptitude behind a wall of false competency, I'll kick you the hell out. And trust me, I _will_ find you. Now, hold out your wands."

The recruits held their training wands in front of them, and the Caretaker flicked his own wand and muttered an incantation under his breath. The training wands in their hands briefly glowed and heated up.

"Spell restrictions are lifted. Try not to kill each other."

"Sir, why can't we just have our own wands back?" Powell asked with a frown.

"Ha! You think I trust you to handle your own wands? Don't be stupid."

With a huff of irritation, the Caretaker raised his wand and began to incant a spell. After a moment, he waved his wand in a final flourish, yielding a rather anticlimactic _hiss_. The ground shuddered briefly and then there appeared a long line of what seemed to be spent charcoal and burnt ash. The thick black line marred the otherwise pristine grass, and it was some twenty or thirty metres long, running parallel to the tree-line of the forest off in the distance.

The Caretaker snapped his fingers, and the entire line ignited, forming a short wall of dancing flames about knee-high. Some fifteen metres back, a robed figure blinked into existence, facing the cadets.

"Rowe, front and centre!"

With a resigned sigh, Ezra walked up to stand just behind the line of fire. The flames licked at his boots, and the heat emanating from them was noticeable but not uncomfortable.

"Incapacitate your target."

Ezra drew his training wand and held it poised in front of him. He revelled in the comfort of having a fully-functioning wand again—even if it wasn't his own. It thrummed and pulsed in his hand, as if ready to show what it could do after weeks of inactivity; anxious to prove its worth.

When the training simulacrum had first been conjured, it had been clothed in simple, black robes. But its robes were gradually becoming lighter, fading to a medium-brown. Unwilling to wait to see what would happen, Ezra pointed the wand steadily downrange and quietly cast, " _Stupefy_."

A red beam of light flew from the wand and impacted the simulacrum in the shoulder, pushing it back a hair and causing its robes to revert to their original black, but otherwise having no visible effect on it.

"Scarlett, you're next."

Ezra moved out of the way and watched as Scarlett took his place. Like him, she appraised the target for a moment before casting a quick Stunner at it.

"Weasley."

The Gryffindor paled and approached the line, but after a moment he took a quick breath and stilled himself. He raised his wand and aimed, but didn't yet fire at the target, whose robes were rapidly whitening.

"I don't have all day, Weasley!" the Caretaker growled.

Just as Weasley was about to cast his spell, the target flashed a brilliant white and sent a curse of his own toward the boy. Ezra flinched as the purple whip of lightning careened into Weasley, tossing him back like a rag-doll. He landed in an unceremonious heap at the feet of Lestrange, who just sneered at him.

"Oh, right..." the Caretaker added as an afterthought. "I suggest you be swift in your casting."

One by one, the cadets were called up to the line to hit the training dummy. After observing Weasley's mishap, each was sure to hit the simulacrum before it could get a chance to retaliate with a painful hex, as signalled by its robes completing the transition from black to white.

When Pilkington was called, her expression turned stony and she curtly shouldered past Jarrett without even a glance his way. She had barely reached the line when she whipped out her wand and cast a Blasting Curse at the dummy. The ensuing explosion whipped up dirt, rocks, and other debris, but once it settled it was apparent the dummy was missing both arms and most of its head.

Ezra watched in morbid fascination as it slowly regrew its missing limbs as well as the absent part of its skull.

"Pathetic. Clearly you lot are out of your depth," their instructor said. "Line up. We have a titillating day ahead of us."

The Auror recruits arranged themselves along the line of flames and watched as a wall of robed simulacra rose from the ground, joining their single comrade in what was now a row of hooded spectres facing the cadets. At the Caretaker's signal, they began throwing spells at their targets.

" _Stupefy_ !" Ezra shouted, repeating his earlier performance. This time, the target unnaturally _bent_ to the right, letting the spell pass by, and responded with a Stunner of its own. He barely had time to react, throwing up a harried Shield Charm, but the inhumanly fast spell rocketed into his shield, shattering it and painfully jolting his entire arm in the process. Fortunately, the shield had done its job absorbing the brunt of the curse, and Ezra was not otherwise injured.

Flicking his wand in a zigzag pattern, Ezra sent three silent Disarming Charms. They were weak, but the spread of spells was sufficient to keep the target on the defencive while he recovered. Then, he followed with a Slashing Hex, stronger and wider than a Severing Charm, but much less accurate—which suited Ezra just fine. The tail of it just barely grazed the black robes of the simulacrum, who just then flashed white and sent its own Slashing Hex back.

"Bollocks!" Ezra dropped to the ground and, in the process, banged his knee smartly on the ground. The hex whizzed overhead, leaving him largely unscathed.

The fight continued. Each spell he cast was either dodged, blocked, or just ignored; and more often than he'd like, the simulacrum would send a spell back, usually mimicking Ezra's most recent attack. The Slytherin sent hex after hex to his target—no longer with the intent of defeating the magical spectre, but just to prevent it from tearing him to shreds.

A sudden oath tore him from his focus, and he looked to his right to see Kovacs getting up and quickly flicking mud from her robes.

"Bugger your arse!" she yelled at Hale, casting a quick jet of fire at the boy on her other side. "Watch where you're bloody going!"

She screamed when a Bone-Breaking Curse hit her arm and she began to hurl a barrage of hexes downrange, snarling as she launched off a frightening deluge of Tunnel-Boring and Flaying Hexes. But what she had gained in ferocity, she lost in precision, as at some point she hit Hale's target, which consequently turned its focus to her. Now, the girl was fighting two different simulacra, and the manic fury in her eye was all that was needed to tell Ezra that she might actually come out on top.

"Kovacs, you slag, calm down and hit your own target!" the Caretaker shouted. "If you wanted to be double-teamed, you should have let me know last night!"

Ezra finally tuned them out and concentrated on not being eviscerated spectacularly by his own simulacrum. The whole exercise was unfair by design; no amount of offencive magic seemed to damage the simulacrum in any noticeable way. It seemed to only exist to infuriate Ezra, who fired spell after spell to try and prevent the damn thing from hitting back.

Not for the first time, he regretted growing his hair out this long. It was matted, knotted, stuck to his sweaty forehead; it was getting in his eyes, and he spent more time than he'd like pushing it out of the way. Worse still, his hands themselves were dripping with sweat and he could feel his wand threatening to slip away. He had resorted to entirely dodging spells instead of casting shields, because he was afraid the next curse to smash his shield would knock the wand from his hand.

Suddenly, the simulacrum stopped moving and put its hands up, subsequently dissolving into a black mist. Eyes narrowed, Ezra shifted to a defencive posture, wand raised and with a reprisal curse on the tip of his tongue.

"Stop," the Caretaker called from behind the cadets. "That's enough piteous wand-waving for now. Go, get out of my sight, unless you want some _personal training exercises_ during your lunch break.

"And don't let me fucking catch you using your wands off the field!" he called to their retreating backs.

#

After a warm—or perhaps "room-temperature" would have been more accurate—shower, Ezra collapsed onto his bed. The afternoon's festivities had been no better than that morning's, and at the moment, he was quite content to never use a wand again.

As Sturch walked by his bunk, they exchanged their usual rude gestures and choice insults, after which Ezra lay back and adopted his usual pretence of sleeping while eavesdropping on the others.

Pilkington walked off to the showers, flatly refusing to look at Weasley who had been following her with his eyes. The forlorn, longing expression on his face was almost pitiful. Ezra knew he needed to talk to him, but so far, every time he had tried, he had been cleanly rebuffed.

Rosier caught the exchange and chuckled, strutting up to the bed and leaning casually on the post, staring down at Weasley. "What's wrong, Weasel? Lovesick already?"

"Go eat mud, Rosier," the Gryffindor spat.

"Or is she just not putting out?" the brunette asked, lips curved in an unpleasant smile.

Weasley jumped out of bed and drew his wand, holding it to Rosier's chest.

"Or maybe she's already had her way with a _real_ man—and she liked it," he continued as if he weren't facing the business end of a wand with a rather irate wizard behind it.

Weasley visibly faltered. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked in a high voice.

"Rosier," Appleby interjected from his own cot. "Shut up."

Rosier turned his head, and he and Appleby shared a meaningful look. Finally, he snorted and turned his back to Weasley, going back to his corner of the barracks. He stilled for a moment and then drew his own wand.

Ezra tensed, fingering his own wand tucked under his pillow.

"Finally," Rosier said after a moment of staring at his deformed, lumpy mattress. "A proper bed." He repeated Lestrange's incantation from the previous week and the cot instantly transformed into a regal, four-poster bed, adorned with a grey and dark green canopy.

"You know we're not supposed to do magic," Cartwright said with a frown.

"What?" Rosier turned to her with a look of confusion. "I can't hear you with the Caretaker's cock in your fucking mouth."

"Grow up," she snapped.

"What are you, my mother?"

"Whatever." Cartwright flipped him off and turned over to go to sleep.

#

"What's the matter? You lot look dead on your feet."

Ezra could barely keep his eyes open, much less gather the energy to respond. It was four in the morning, and he had gotten less than three hours of sleep last night.

At around midnight, the Caretaker had barged into the barracks and ordered them into ranks before marching them down to the beachfront. What had followed was an excruciating, terrifying, and humiliating "lesson"—all because Rosier had been stupid enough transfigure his bed the evening prior. Suffice to say that Rosier was no longer with them.

"The only person who has an excuse to look like shit is Devenish—and she's out with pneumonia! So? What is it? Did you not get enough sleep?" the Caretaker asked tartly.

"No, sir..." Yaxley responded with a glare whose effect was largely deadened by the yawn that interrupted it halfway through.

"Good. You don't bloody deserve sleep after that stunt you pulled yesterday."

"It wasn't our fault," Kovacs snipped back. "It was fucking Rosier."

"Oh, stuff your fat mouth and accept your punishment," the Caretaker said. "I don't pay you to backtalk. Now, listen up! Today, we're going to be learning how to deal with hostage situations!"

In a repeat performance of the day before, the Caretaker summoned a line of simulacra which rose from the ground. But this time, in front of each simulacrum stood another figure wearing what looked to be a Muggle suit from the nineteenth century.

"Robbins," the man gestured impatiently at the Scot, "why don't you go ahead and demonstrate?"

The hooded figure across from Robbins grabbed its hostage and held a wand to its neck. It began to strafe left and right, moving erratically so as to make itself harder to hit. Throughout the movement, the hostage was always held directly in front of the target, offering no clear shot to take.

Robbins held his wand out, waiting carefully for an opportunity to stun the simulacrum. But the opportunity never came, and after some thirty seconds, the hostage suddenly blew up in a cloud of flying fabric and conjured body parts.

"That looks like a T to me," the Caretaker said disdainfully, scribbling something down on a piece of parchment. "What a shame."

Next came Sturch. Like Robbins, he was never presented a clear shot, but he took a gamble and ended up hitting the hostage with a crimson red Stunner.

"You sodding idiot. You're supposed to hit the criminal!" the Caretaker yelled, smacking Sturch in the back of the head.

When Yaxley was called up, she regarded her target for a moment before her lips curled into a malicious sneer. With a flick of her wand and a shouted incantation, she let forth a powerful Reductor Curse that smashed into the hostage, causing both it and the robed figure behind it to explode into a cloud of ash and dust.

"Excellent wand-work, Yaxley," the Caretaker muttered while checking off a box on his parchment. "Glad to see someone isn't pussyfooting around."

"What—" Ezra sputtered before he could stop himself. "She just blew up the civilian!"

"So? Not my concern," their instructor said with a shrug. "Go—everyone line up!"

Ezra stood, momentarily dazed, staring at the Caretaker's back as he barked a few other orders. Of all the things that shocked him, he knew this shouldn't have been one of them, given everything he knew about their instructor so far. But he couldn't help the feeling of revulsion that coiled up his body.

No one else seemed the least put out by the Caretaker's offhand comment—in fact, most had seemed pleasantly surprised.

When he gave the command for the recruits to start the exercise, Hughes immediately cast the strongest Hellfire Curse he could, gleefully laughing as both of his targets melted into the ground.

"Take that, ya' fucking Mudblood!" he yelled at the puddle of ash and liquefied skin, shooting another wave of fire downrange for no particular reason.

Ezra involuntarily backed up, briefly, inadvertently catching Weasley's eye. He looked as disturbed as Ezra felt.

Gone, it seemed, was the timid Hughes who was constantly harassed about his blood without reprisal. Instead, over the past weeks, a wizard had slowly emerged who showed he could be just as manic as the rest. A wizard who was quite vicious when he needed to be.

It was exactly this phenomenon that terrified Ezra the most. Hughes' character shift was the paragon of trial by fire, but in the worst way possible. He had entered Aurum Vale, naive to the bigotry and discrimination he would face; but then he had adapted, evolved—overcome. He had steeped in that bigotry and had eventually become desensitised to it. He had fashioned it into something that he now wielded against others.

Ezra knew that he himself was not immune. He just hoped that he could escape before too much damage was done.

#

After a gruelling morning of killing hostages, as well as a few assailants, the cadets were shepherded to the Mess for a quick, squalid lunch, and then right back out to the field. At the moment they stood in two rows several metres apart, facing each other.

"Fighting a real, breathing person is nothing like fighting a simulation. A simulacrum cannot truly think or act like a wizard—it is simply not a human."

Ezra snorted but quickly turned it into a shallow cough before he could draw the Caretaker's ire.

"This afternoon, you'll be fighting each other: living, breathing, thinking—well, maybe not thinking..." he added as an afterthought. "Human beings. Illogical. Erratic. Selfish. What makes us such potent fighters. What defines us."

As the Caretaker walked off, Kovacs turned toward Ezra. "Damn shame he didn't pair us together, Rowe," she said with a sneer. "I'd just love to beat that arrogant smirk off your face."

"Just what is your problem?" he hissed back before he could catch himself. Father had always warned him against engaging with heedless aggression, but he threw that particular warning to the wind. "Nothing better to do than stir up trouble? Back off."

By now, Ezra had drawn his wand to mirror Kovacs, though he had yet to raise it.

"Don't play all 'innocent victim' with me," she said, again glancing around to make sure the Caretaker wouldn't overhear. "Theo and Pansy told me all about you. And I've seen you staring—all the time. You some sort of stalker?"

Ezra quirked his brow and let the sarcasm ooze into his voice. "Yeah, that's exactly it. I'm just so interested in your life—I've always wanted to be a big part of it."

They immediately shut their mouths and faced forward as the Caretaker approached once again. "As always, your goal is to incapacitate your opponent. I'll stop you after sixty seconds—if you haven't killed each other by then."

Ezra appraised his opponent, Saida Powell, awaiting the start signal. From what he'd seen of her in the past weeks, she was a skilled duellist, certainly good enough for the Auror force, but in comparison to the other cadets, nothing stood out.

When the Caretaker gave the signal, Ezra dispassionately threw a Stunner her way, intent to test the waters. She blocked it with a thin blue Shield Charm and returned fire, apparently taking a similar strategy to Ezra. They traded several volleys of spells, each meant not to harm but to probe the other's abilities: a litmus test. But before more than a few seconds had passed—

"Stop, stop, stop!" the Caretaker called. "Disgusting. You're not even trying, are you? Not one of you—not one. Try this again." With that, he released another _BANG_.

Ezra wasted no time in sending two Stunners followed by a Leg-Locker Curse. The first two were effortlessly avoided, and the third just barely caught Powell in the arm, causing her to stumble momentarily. When she righted herself, she responded with a litany of Blasting Curses, all of which he was able to avoid or block.

However, as Father always said, the unseen curse was the deadliest. A poorly-aimed Blasting Curse had kicked up large clouds of dirt and grass, and Ezra wasn't able to fully evade the wave of fire that tore through the murky cloud of dust blocking his vision. He quickly rolled to the side and extinguished the flames gnawing at his robes, now thankful for the wall of dust that provided him some cover.

"Halt! Atherton, that's a pathetic showing. My grandmother can cast quicker than that—and she's a Muggle! I'm just joking, by the way. I don't really have a Muggle grandmother. I might have to kill myself if I did. Again!"

This time, Powell got her curses off first. What they lacked in raw power they made up for in their speed, and Ezra had a hell of a time blocking them, finally resorting to a moderately effective but finicky Mirror Shield. When her spells started returning to her, Powell was forced to briefly let up.

During the small reprieve, Ezra unleashed two arcing Severing Charms down the field—too weak to do much damage, but wide enough to keep his opponent off-balance as she tried to jump out of their path.

"You know," the Caretaker's voice reverberated down the field, "I just don't think you're motivated. I ask you to fight and you lot are pussyfooting around like a gaggle of teenage bimbos." He was silent for a moment as he considered the fate of his recruits.

"I think we need a fresh start. That group," he gestured at the row of cadets opposite Ezra, "shift down by two. Listen carefully, you worthless sods, I'll make you a deal. The winner of each pair gets to sit out of our next exercise. How's that for motivation?"

Motivation, indeed. Ezra turned back to face down the field, gritting his teeth when he saw who his new opponent was.

Appleby stared at him, a snide smile carved into his pallid, arrogant face. The boy's wand was drawn, and he lazily twirled it around his fingers as he awaited the instructor's signal.

Ezra stared back. He struggled to keep his expression stoic, but underneath it was a frenzy of twisting, swirling emotions. The other boy had not seen Ezra that evening during Pilkington's assault, but Ezra had sure as spit seen him.

Unfortunately, Pilkington still refused to speak to anyone about the attack, and she had told him in no uncertain terms that he wasn't to bring it up either. But the very least he could do was trounce Appleby in a fight, and hopefully in the process humiliate him off the face of the planet.

He was looking forward to this.

At the Caretaker's cue, Appleby skipped all the pleasantries and immediately shot off a stream of liquid fire that arced through the air.

" _Murum Ferrus_!" Ezra yelled so quickly that the syllables blended together into an indistinguishable slur. A solid slab of iron, some ten centimetres thick, popped into existence just in front of him, and he ducked his head so it wasn't exposed. With a whisper, he also cast an auxiliary Aquafor shield that would hopefully stem off any stray flames.

It wasn't a moment too soon, as the jet of fire impacted against the iron wall with an enormous roar. The flames were deflected over his head and to the side, falling to the ground and setting the grass around him ablaze. Nearby flames met his Aquafor shield and were promptly extinguished, releasing puffs of steam into the air. Appleby waved his wand around like a water hose, coating the entirety of the nearby periphery with flames that were entirely too hot—but the shields held.

From that moment forward, Ezra was perpetually on his back foot. Every time Appleby acted, Ezra reacted. But that was all he could do. The minuscule moment between each incoming spell was always spent recovering, evading, or casting a new shield. To take the time casting any serious offencive spell would mark a conclusive end to the fight.

"Hold up a bloody second!" the instructor shouted from behind them.

Ezra released a sigh of relief and got to his feet. But right then, Kovacs shrieked as a Cutting Curse tore a slice through her thigh. Dirty blond hair fluttered in a wind as she started wildly flinging curses toward her opponent, Braxton Hale. He, in turn, was doing all he could to deflect the incoming curses.

"Kovacs, drop your wand!" the Caretaker ordered.

But she continued, blasting off a myriad of powerful curses, many of which missed—some barely, others by a long shot.

"KOVACS!"

Her wand was yanked from her hand and it flew towards the instructor. At the same time, she was violently thrown off her feet, flying a short distance before being tossed to the ground in a heap.

The Caretaker glowered at her prone form before looking up. "Now that that's dealt with..."

He abruptly turned on his foot and marched over to where Atherton was standing. He leaned in until his face was scant centimetres from the boy's. " _What the sodding hell was that?!_ " the Caretaker spat into his face.

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Oh, so now you're playing dumb? Or are you actually dumb? Everyone, we have a retard in our midst!"

"No, sir, I just don't know—"

"Of course you don't know. It's because you're a retard. Didn't I just say that?"

The Caretaker stared at him, clearly expecting an answer. Apparently it wasn't a rhetorical question. "Well?"

"You did, Caretaker."

"Shut up, I don't need your validation. Especially not from a boy who can't even follow instructions. Or maybe you can, and you just choose not to." He suddenly turned to Atherton's sparring partner. "Scarlett, has he buggered you yet?"

"...what?" she managed to splutter, face quickly reddening.

"Yeah, I thought not. I see what's going on here. He"—the Caretaker pointed his middle finger at Atherton—"is going easy on you. Holding back to make you look better. Just to get in your trousers. Hell, if that were the prize, I'd do the same thing," he said lasciviously. "You know what, Scarlett? I don't think you're a competent duellist."

"Caretaker," the girl squeaked, "you said we don't duel—we fight."

"Exactly. So if you can't duel, how the hell can I expect you to fight?"

"I can fight!" she yelled.

"No, no you can't. Certainly not if Atherton here has to hold back just to make you appear adequate."

"I was not!"

" _Imperio_ ," the Caretaker hissed. Atherton immediately straightened and adopted a vacant expression, eyes glazed over.

"Now's your chance to prove yourself!" he cackled as Atherton robotically raised his arm and turned to face Scarlett.

Immediately, Atherton cast a series of Reductor Curses, most of which were dodged, and one blocked. The boy released a very un-Atherton-like guffaw as he followed up with a slew of steel arrows. Scarlett gasped as one nicked her arm. She sent back her own choice of spells, all of which were effortlessly blocked by a resplendent red shield. After a few seconds of playing around, the Caretaker-controlled Atherton cast a Suffocation Jinx that Scarlett was simply too slow to block. When she realised she couldn't breathe, she began to hyperventilate as she desperately tried to suck in oxygen, to no avail. Choking, she put her hands around her neck as if that would somehow help, and then finally collapsed to the ground, shaking, wheezing, and sobbing.

With a shrug, the Caretaker dispassionately reversed the jinx and then lifted the boy from the Imperius.

"I told you I would find anyone trying to hide their incompetence. I found you, Cadet Scarlett. You're not a fighter. You're of no use to the Auror force. And you," he said, whirling around to face Atherton. "I've said it once, I've said it a hundred times. Aurors follow orders. If you're going to sacrifice your integrity for the sake of getting in a girl's knickers, go to a strip club."

He turned and regarded both of them. "Both of you—get out."

How ironic, Ezra mused. The Caretaker extolling integrity, as if he had any himself. The only integrity on this island was the magic keeping the decrepit, shoddy barracks standing.

The Caretaker turned and walked toward Kovacs, who by this time had risen to her feet and stemmed the bleeding from the gash in her thigh.

"Thought I'd forgotten about you, eh?"

"What are you talking about?" Kovacs snapped back, her hand twitching.

"You're a bloody lunatic. Hell, I'm surprised you haven't killed me when my back was turned."

"What's your point? I can beat anyone here in a fight." She raised her chin defiantly, glaring at the Caretaker as if daring him to refute her.

"I don't care. You're a loose cannon, Kovacs. A fucking danger to everyone around you. Get the hell out."

"What? No!" she screamed. "You think you can just toss me out?!"

"I can do whatever I want," he said with a chilling gleam in his eyes. "On this island, I'm God."

With that, the ground trembled and a large plant sprang forth. Kovacs reached for her wand to blast it to pieces, apparently forgetting that the Caretaker had disarmed her earlier. She shrieked and tried to run, but she tripped and as she was falling, the plant opened its mouth wide and gobbled her up in a single motion.

After the spectacle, the instructor turned to face the small crowd of observing cadets. "What is this, a fucking Quidditch tryout? Back at it!"

"Caretaker, I don't have a partner..." Hale said.

"Then it looks like you're the winner. Take a seat," and he conjured a plushy red chair for Hale to sit in.

"As for the rest of you..."

Ezra turned back to his opponent, grateful for the short reprieve at the cost of Atherton's and Scarlett's—and Kovacs'—potential careers. He frowned and then took a deep breath, adopting a forward Polish duelling stance. This opening position offered less mobility than some others, but afforded an easier opportunity to start off a fight offensively.

"...begin!"

The word was only halfway out of the Caretaker's mouth when Ezra turned his wand-hand palm up, snapping his wrist upward and releasing a teeth-jarring Ground-Rupturing Curse. The wave of energy raced down the field, and Appleby was forced to dive out of the way before the ground beneath him blew up.

A quick Stunner followed, but it was again readily dodged by Appleby. The blond returned fire, sending a Flame Charm his way which set Ezra's patch of grass ablaze. In a strange moment of déjà vu, Ezra cast a hasty Flame-Freezing Charm to neutralise the threat, and then sent back two more Stunners. The boy was forced to dodge one and shield the other with a _ping!_

After his opener—a questionably legal curse—Ezra had quickly reverted to simpler, faster spells, but it was clear that that wasn't the game Appleby was playing. The fight gradually devolved into a hostile negotiation of Dark and oft-fatal hexes. Streaks of purple, green, and yellow raced across the field between the two combatants, sometimes being snuffed out, other times being deflected haphazardly into the air.

A particularly gnarly but unknown hex—he was pretty sure it was a hex, given the wand motion, but he wasn't sure—pummelled into Ezra's shield, destroying it and sending a painful shock wave up through his arm to his chest and neck. Fortunately, most of its power had gone into breaking the shield.

Then, in a sudden moment of inspiration, he shot off a quick nonverbal spell before shouting, " _Stupefy_!"

Appleby instantly raised a Shield Charm, but was surprised when no red spell came his way. Instead, an iron arrow sang through the air just behind where the Stunner would have been, laughably ignoring the shield and piercing the boy's shin and calf.

Ezra spared himself a small smile. He now had the leg up.

Ignoring the anguished scream from across the field as Appleby tried to recover, Ezra cast a weak Severing Charm which sliced his robe and cut into his arm.

Finally, the blond had vanished the arrow and crudely healed his leg, and was back on his feet. However, he moved with a clear limp, one that would almost certainly cost him the fight. Each subsequent curse that he sent toward Ezra would be parried and replied to in kind.

" _Ossum Effringo_ ," he muttered, taking grim pleasure at seeing the Bone-Breaking Curse impact with Appleby's uninjured leg. Again the boy screamed, dropping to the ground. He was also not able to block the subsequent Flame Charm and Suffocation Jinx.

Surrounded by angry flames, Appleby tried desperately to breathe, but to no avail. Eventually, he fell back, unconscious, at which point the Caretaker Apparated over to him, extinguishing the flames and countering the Suffocation Jinx.

With a slight frown, the Caretaker looked up and stared at Ezra, who stood with his wand still drawn. Finally, he snorted and shouted across the field.

"Acceptable!"

#

"Six more days," said Parkinson with a sigh.

"What?" Lestrange asked, eyes squinted in confusion.

"I'm counting down 'til the end of training."

"What?" the sallow boy repeated. "I didn't know you could count."

"Shove off, Lestrange."

"I suppose we _will_ be done soon," he said after a moment, clearly unperturbed by Parkinson's glare. "I'm quite pleased that the Caretaker has finally cleaned house."

"I guess," Sturch interjected, giving an appraising look around the room. "Well... mostly."

"How do you mean?"

Eyes fixed on Ezra, the hench boy jerked his chin forward and muttered, "Except Rowe here."

"What'd you just say?" Ezra said, snapping his head up toward Sturch. He hopped off his bed and strode up until he was nearly within arm's reach.

"Bit of a softy, are you? Can't even face the truth staring right at you..."

"What are you on about?"

"You haven't heard the rumours?" Sturch looked down on him and wrinkled his nose as if he were investigating a particularly unpleasant rodent. "The Caretaker's mentioned your... underperformance."

Ezra involuntarily flinched, taking a half-step back before composing himself.

"Watch yourself, Sturch, I'm not in the mood." His hand was clenched tightly around his wand, which had started to emit scattered sparks.

"No magic, Rowe..." Robbins muttered from behind him.

But Ezra ignored the boy, instead staring murderously at Sturch. Neither moved, each knowing it would be unwise to escalate any further but unwilling to admit it to the other.

"I've seen you at training," the other boy finally said after a tense silence. "You just don't share everyone's... enthusiasm. Seems you're lacking a certain ambition. Or I wonder if you have some ulterior motive—"

"Don't you _dare_ ," Ezra snarled, slamming the boy back into the wall and pressing the tip of his wand to his neck. His heart was pounding in his ears, and he resisted the urge to look around at the gathered spectators. He was teetering on a fine line here.

"Hey!" Cartwright suddenly yelled. "What the hell's going on? Put your bleeding wand away!"

When neither wizard moved, Cartwright yelled again. Finally, Ezra backed up, still panting, releasing Sturch and carefully stowing his wand.

Gradually the other cadets lost interest in the spectacle, idly returning to their previous activities. Cartwright went back to her cot, and Sturch, with one final glare thrown around the room, stalked out the door, presumably to get some fresh air.

With a furtive glance around to make sure no one was paying attention, Ezra drew his wand once more and followed the boy.

#

Ezra had just finished eating and was limping his way out of the Mess toward the barracks for a well-deserved nap before the Caretaker's next painful incarnation of an exercise. He pivoted toward the side door, and as he neared it, he passed by one of the alcoves that housed a few, mostly unpopular, tables. The alcove was shoved into a far corner, angled so as to face away from the rest of the room, and dimly lit to boot.

As such, when he passed by, he was more than a little surprised to see a morose Ron Weasley seated at one of its tables, food in front of him largely uneaten. His shoulders were slumped in defeat, and his glassy, empty eyes stared unseeing at the wall ahead of him.

Ezra slowed to a stop, idly calculating how many minutes he could afford to spend here before his would-be nap was ruined. It would probably be a waste of effort trying to engage Weasley; after all, he had tried several times before and each time had been casually rebuffed. That said, what kind of person would he be if he didn't at least try to level with the boy? He did owe the Gryffindor that much.

With a final longing glance toward the door, Ezra neared the table and sat down beside Weasley. "Hey, Weasley... Ron?"

The redhead slowly turned his vacant expression toward Ezra, but otherwise made no indication that he'd recognised the arrival of another person at his table.

"Weasley?"

"What do you want?" he finally asked despondently. His voice was hollow, lacking any of the emotion it usually carried, including the mild causticity reserved for Ezra. Even his garish orange hair seemed muted in its tones. But at least now his eyes seemed focused.

"What's with you?" he asked, careful to keep his tone even, not too accusatory. "You've been in a funk for days and it's obviously affecting—"

"I don't need you nagging on me like..." His thought seemed to fade away. "It's none of your business anyway."

"It is when you're attracting the Caretaker's attention. You're the one pissing around, but he takes it out on _all_ of us," Ezra shot back, leaning in to cut the distance between them. "You need to snap out of this."

Weasley pursed his lips and leaned back, slouching against the wall with arms crossed over his chest, but said nothing.

"Can we cut the charade? I know this is about Pilkington."

At this, Weasley's head whipped up to stare at him. "How did you...?"

Ezra could have laughed if not for the delicate situation in front of him. In some ways, Ron Weasley would never change. He probably couldn't have sneaked a raindrop out of a lake.

"You're not exactly subtle about it... Pretty sure everyone here knows."

Weasley sighed and slouched even further down the bench until his chin was almost level with the table in front of him. "Yeah, it's... her. I thought she fancied me, you know? I've tried everything, and..." He trailed off and then blinked as if his mind had just inexplicably decided to pursue a new train of thought. "Ever since Hogwarts, I just haven't been... I miss it, I guess."

Ezra couldn't help but empathise with the Gryffindor. The past month had not been kind to Weasley in the changes it had brought. He'd graduated from Hogwarts, a school that had been his home-away-from-home for seven years. The world outside was vastly different from the world within the Hogwarts bubble. Both of best friends, now gone: one dead, one pushed away in a moment of panicked weakness.

Then, Weasley had joined the Auror force, ready to fight the good fight, ready to push back against the system that had persecuted the people he cared about. Of course, at Aurum Vale, he had encountered no shortage of bigotry, antipathy, and animosity; so it was of little surprise that he'd turned toward pursuing Pilkington, rather pretty in her own right, as a sort of escape mechanism.

"I know... It's been a difficult transition," Ezra finally responded, the words forming in his mind only just as he opened his mouth. "I know you you don't like me, but please, listen. You've been moping about for days. The Caretaker's at the end of his patience. If you want to make it to the weekend, you need to snap out of it."

The other boy heaved a sigh, inadvertently blowing a limp strand of hair from his face. "I just—I know. I know you're right. Sometimes I just wish I knew what she was thinking."

With a shudder, Ezra thought back to that one morbid evening. Her threat to him. Her constant subtle (or perhaps not-so-subtle) warnings since.

"Me too, Weasley... me too."

Weasley shook his head as if to clear it. "Maybe it's not even worth it."

After a minute lost in thought, Weasley sighed once more, then dragged himself across the bench and stood up, narrowly avoiding banging his head on the defunct chandelier above head. "I'm gonna go for a walk... Clear my head," he said, heading toward the door built opposite of the alcove. When he reached it, he turned to look back toward the table. "And Rowe—thanks. You're not so bad."

#

The next evening found Ezra and Robbins seated side-by-side at a faded wooden table, tiredly eating the gritty beans and limp bread that the house-elves had meted out for today's dinner. Every so often, one would whisper something, and the other would respond in an equally-low voice.

At some point, Robbins asked something mundane about tomorrow's exercise, but Ezra was suddenly more interested in what was unfolding near the entrance to the kitchen. Weasley had acquired his plate full of slop and, after scanning the room for a suitable place to consume his dinner, began to make his way toward Ezra's table. He stopped a short distance away and caught Ezra's gaze, the redhead's silent question hanging like a tightrope between them. At Ezra's curt nod, Weasley took a seat at the table. A truce.

A mostly-comfortable silence ensued as the three boys finished their pitiful meals, though there was an occasional comment here or there. Nothing of great import; just a way to pass the time. More importantly, it was a symbol of armistice.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, Pilkington, seated nearly across the room, finished off her own dinner and bid her posse goodbye, electing to take the scenic route past Ezra's table. The expression she wore was unreadable, though she did glance meaningfully at Weasley as she sashayed past him. Weasley, to his credit, steadfastly ignored her, instead fixing an intense glare at his own food.

Ezra couldn't help but smirk.

As she neared the exit, Pilkington studiously ignored Theodore Nott, who had taken up residence there with his pals; clearly her antipathy was not requited, as the boy's eyes raked over her and then he threw a furtive glance behind him to make sure no one was looking. Satisfied, he whispered something to Parkinson and, with a caustic chuckle, got up and followed Pilkington as she left the Mess via the side door.

 _What's he up to now?_ Ezra wondered, staring at the Slytherin's retreating back. Surely nothing good could come of this. Suddenly, he jumped to his feet, banging his knee in the process, and subtly palmed his wand.

"What's up?" Robbins asked with a confused look.

"Nothing. I'll be right back."

Though it couldn't have been much past seven, it was already dark out. Ezra couldn't see that far ahead and he wasn't sure which way they had gone. Fortunately, he was saved the trouble of searching when he heard voices from around the back corner of the building. Careful to keep his steps quiet, Ezra padded up to the corner and pressed his back to the wall, hiding in the shadow offered by the eaves overhead.

"What now?" Pilkington asked tiredly.

"You know, I think you enjoyed our little rendezvous the other night," responded Nott, who idly conjured an area-wide sound barrier.

"Sorry to disappoint," she snapped. "Your pathetic superiority complex seems to have blinded you."

Ezra winced as he heard the sharp sound of a slap ring through the cool night air.

"Better watch your mouth, bitch. I don't think you're in any position to be giving me lip," the boy growled.

Suddenly, Pilkington screeched and then emitted a muffled oath. Ezra drew his wand and peered around the corner, a Stunner on his lips.

"If you don't want a repeat performance of last week, I suggest you play along," Nott hissed. He had one hand pinning her right arm against the wall of the building, and the other holding a wand that dug into her neck. Then, he reached down and quickly pulled her wand from her pocket, tossing it behind him.

"Okay," she finally choked out after a tense silence. "Just... please don't hurt me," she added with a shudder.

"We'll see." Nott smirked and grabbed her hair. Then, he pulled her to him and began to frantically bite at her neck and then work his way down, moaning desperately.

Pilkington shrugged her robe off, giving him easier access. Just as his mouth approached her breast, she stopped him but then pulled him even closer until both of their bodies were pressed against each other. "Theodore," she gasped in a husky voice.

"What?" he snapped, clearly put out at being interrupted.

"There was actually one thing I enjoyed..."

Nott's frown quickly turned into a leer. "What's that?"

"Finding this."

In one swift motion, Pilkington pushed the boy away from her and brought her arm swiftly up, Nott's old knife in hand. With surprising ease, she rammed the blade straight up between his legs.

Nott let loose a blood-curdling scream and immediately collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from his robes.

"You know, I think you're secretly enjoying this," she said flatly as she knelt down beside his convulsing form. With a steely glint in her eye, she tore open his trousers and grabbed his family jewels before slowly slicing them off amidst his continued wails of agony. Seemingly oblivious to the splatters of blood covering her robes, face, and hands, she raised the knife again and started to stab him, again and again—in the thigh, the abdomen, the arm, and even his eye socket. Each time, his screams were refreshed anew, until they were eventually replaced by a sickening gurgling sound as dark red blood pooled from his mouth.

With a brief look around, Pilkington took Nott's wand and cast a slurry of cleaning spells on herself and her knife. Then, she snapped the wand, donned her robes, and hurried off in the direction of the barracks, leaving behind the bloodied and mangled corpse of Theodore Nott.

#

Curiously, there was no talk of Nott's absence the next morning. Pilkington wasn't volunteering any information, and Ezra sure as hell wasn't going to say anything. Surely the Caretaker noticed the boy was missing, but it was unclear if he knew the reason. Regardless, he didn't mention it, and none of the cadets were dumb enough to ask why he wasn't there.

It was, in simple terms, eerie. It was as if Theodore Nott had ever existed. Not that he'd contributed much to society when he _was_ alive...

Ezra didn't think the morning could get any stranger. That is, until the Caretaker announced this morning's topic of interest.

"Inferi."

Merlin, the man couldn't be serious... could he? But deep down, he knew the answer before he could finish the thought.

"Inferi are typically reanimated corpses—you know, dead people," he added, as if doubtful that his audience knew what a corpse was. "However, there is another lesser-known method of creating an Inferius. They're not quite as sturdy as a naturally-raised one, and it doesn't take the form of—well, you'll see soon enough."

What the Caretaker had conveniently failed to mention was that this "alternative" method had been developed in the bowels of the Ministry not two years ago.

"Today is a test of willpower. Fortitude. A nerveless Auror is a lifeless Auror. Dead. You must be able to carry on a fight no matter the cost."

Ezra shifted uncomfortably and took an unconscious step back. A quick look around suggested he was largely alone in his thoughts. Most of the others had blank expressions, faces set in stone, ready to impress the Caretaker.

"Any volunteers?" the instructor asked with a vicious grin.

After a brief silence, Hughes stepped forward. "I'll do it."

"Good—grit! That's what I like to see!"

The earth in front of Hughes began to tremble, and the dirt started to dance and roil, uprooting and then swallowing the poorly-maintained grass above. Slowly, a flat, shoddy plank of wood rose out of the ground, pushing aside the trembling dirt and rocks. But as it rose, Ezra realised it wasn't just a single piece of wood—it was an entire coffin. An old, nearly-dilapidated coffin, but a coffin nonetheless.

The mouldy lid then began to creak open, accompanied by a low, unearthly groan as the gnarled wood fought against century-old construction.

In front of him, Powell shrieked as a grotesque figure suddenly leapt out of the coffin with grace and agility that one would not expect from a... well, it wasn't like any Inferius that Ezra had ever seen. This one looked much more _human_ , if that could be an adjective used to describe an undead creature. Really, it was an uncomfortable mix between a person and a skeleton; with matted hair, tattered skin and dark holes where eyes used to be. A rack of ribs physically penetrated through the skin, and there was no flesh or muscle on its extremities—just tarnished yellow bone with possibly some stray ligaments.

Then, the Inferius unfolded itself to stand up straight. Almost robotically, it swivelled its head around to lock eyes with Hughes, who gasped and stared back in shock.

After appraising its target, the creature swiftly scuttled forward. Ezra cringed as its bones rattled against each other, and large chunks of—something—bobbed up and down in rhythm with the Inferius' cadence. As it came closer, he could begin to make out more unsavoury details of the creature that he'd prefer not to have seen. An ensemble of maggots and what might have been leeches availed themselves of the still-attached tatters of flesh that only remained by pure chance. But not for long—even now, grotesque flaps of rotted skin were falling to the grass with every step.

The Inferius stopped not five metres from Hughes, who gazed absently ahead with wand raised, seemingly lost in his own world.

"What are you waiting for?" the Caretaker called. "Dispose of that vile scum."

Ezra wasn't sure which one he was referring to.

Nevertheless, it was unclear why the boy was hesitating. The Inferius was certainly one of the more disgusting things on this side of Hell—was Hughes that terrified of Inferi?

But then it spoke.

"Frrr... Shr... Shrimon..." It struggled to form understandable words with its dilapidated mouth. "...s... shun..."

_Simon. Son._

_Is that...?_ Ezra shook his head to clear it. Hughes' father. Or at least, what had once been his father.

"D—dad?" Hughes' voice quivered, and he hesitantly lowered his wand a pea.

"You gonna stand there all day, Hughes? Destroy it!" the Caretaker cackled. Yet even he subtly drew his wand, clearly not liking the odds.

"Shun... Pl...ease," it rasped. But then it bared a horrid grin, unnaturally cocking its arm back almost past its opposite shoulder, and swiftly pounced.

"You're in for one painful morning, boy!"

But Hughes ignored the Caretaker and watched as the Inferius closed the gap.

"HUGHES!"

The boy yelped and let off a wisp of a Stunner that did little more than knock some maggots astray. The Inferius finally reached melee range and subsequently whipped its arm forward so quickly that Ezra was worried it would simply break upon impacting with Hughes.

In fact, that's exactly what it did. As the creature raked its bony, jagged digits down Hughes' face and chest, its entire hand—and most of its arm—simply crumbled to the ground.

Hughes shrieked and fell to the ground, rivers of blood quickly pooling on his body as the deep gashes bled as they were wont to do. The Inferius continued trying to enunciate endearing platitudes to its "son", but its ostensible pleas and whimpers were belied by the ferocity with which it assailed the half-blood.

Finally, Hughes lifted his wand and released a plume of fire which engulfed the disarmed creature. With an unearthly, necrotic wail, the Inferius stumbled back and toppled to the ground. Its piercing cries were accompanied by a putrid odour that filled the air as its decaying skin started to melt.

When it came to be Ezra's turn, he set his jaw and stepped forward, ignoring the Caretaker's encouragement—or wheedling, whichever it was. Fortunately, he did have at least one advantage over Hughes: he knew what was coming.

For the second time that morning, a derelict coffin emerged from the ground and an unnaturally hominine Inferius burst forth, landing in a crouch not far from the site of its conception. The shape of its twisted body was vaguely reminiscent of Ezra's father, but its hair was what arrested his attention. Long and mangled, it hung in knotted wisps from a slimy skull, covering what was left of a face, and it was... quite dark in colour, as if dyed with dirt, blood, and other unmentionable substances.

The Inferius began to rise to its feet, but before it could even raise its head to search for its target, Ezra snarled and shouted, " _Reducto_!"

His wand jolted from the force of the curse, releasing a powerful surge that rocketed into the Inferius, blasting its body into pieces no larger than a thumb. For good measure, Ezra followed it with a quick Flame Charm to finish the job. Satisfied, he lowered his wand, marginally surprised to find himself panting from the exertion.

Suddenly, a flash of fear came over him, and he snapped his head around—what would the others say? Had they seen—

No, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Hughes was still reeling from his own encounter. The twins were leering at him with their usual mixture of contempt and envy. The Caretaker was staring at him with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

#

The ensuing silence was broken only by the scratch of ink on parchment. Finally, the Unspeakable rested his quill on the table and looked up.

"I thought you said your father was still alive."

Indigo shook his head. "Those weren't real Inferi. They were merely intimations. As you know, the Ministry's Reincarnation Ritual—"

"The Ministry does not condone any such ritual," the Unspeakable cut in.

"Of course. As I was saying, that Reincarnation Ritual does not require a physical body—only a magical impression of its target. A family member is usually sufficient to provide that impression."

"So, in the interest of clarity, your father was indeed alive?" the hooded man pressed.

With an irritated sigh, Indigo slowly massaged his temples before finally responding. "This is hardly relevant. If you don't mind, I'd rather discuss the topic at hand."

"As you wish. How did the others fare against the faux Inferi?"

"For the most part, surprisingly well... Frankly, it was a disturbing exercise. Where the Caretaker derived his inspiration for this madness, I have no clue, nor do I wish to find out. Of all of the training exercises we ever did, this was the most sickening, the most vile. Midnight exercises in freezing water; four-hour shackled marches around the compound; enhanced interrogation training; none of it held a candle to the absolute absurdity that was that morning. Saida Powell—I think I mentioned her—she didn't make it."

"Pardon?"

A dark expression momentarily flitted across Indigo's face. "She hesitated just a second too long—as any sane, well-adjusted person would in the face of a supposed loved-one-turned-undead. The Inferius nearly disembowelled her; she was sent to St Mungo's and never returned to Aurum Vale."

"It sounded like you handled yours just fine, Indigo."

He shrugged, but did not otherwise respond.

"Did you say 'enhanced interrogation training'?" the Unspeakable asked after a tense moment.

"Ex—excuse me?" Indigo asked.

"Just now, you mentioned 'enhanced interrogation training,'" he said, reading a line on his parchment for confirmation.

Indigo paled what little he physiologically could—after all, he hadn't even seen sunlight in over fifty years. That had been a slip of the tongue.

"I'd rather not discuss that, if you don't mind."

"Yet, you just said that dealing with the Inferi was the worst—" The Unspeakable quieted at the frigid expression on Indigo's face. "Please, Indigo, this is as hard for me as it is for you."

"I doubt it," Indigo shot back with a scowl. He was then silent for what must have been several minutes, staring down at his grimy, callused hands as if that would offer an escape from the situation. Finally, he let out a deep sigh.

"It's not worth going into detail. It was our final unit at Aurum Vale, after the Inferi. Apparently, the Unforgivable Curses—among a few others—are a critical component of an Auror's arsenal. The Caretaker made sure we practised our Cruciatus and Imperius Curses, in particular."

"How?"

"We were to practice on enemies of the—forgive me, on political dissidents. Well... most of the time, anyway," he added with a cringe.

"These were people who could not formally be charged with anything under British magical law. My understanding is that the Ministry... The Ministry hoped having some overly-enthusiastic Auror cadets take a gander at them would spur them to confess their various crimes."

"I'm not sure what you're intimating, Indigo 9733, but I note for the record that the subject is merely expressing an unsubstantiated opinion."

"I appreciate your staunch persistence, Unspeakable, but really: who are you trying to convince? We"—he gestured between the two men—"know the truth of this Ministry. _They_ know the truth," he said with a nondescript wave to the walls around him.

"You have the advantage of seeing the world in black and white, Indigo. But the world eschews such simple formulation. There is no truth and mistruth. There is pretence, deceit, suggestion, and misunderstanding. Things are rarely what they seem."

"Indeed, they rarely are. But even so, there is always a truth—there must be. Because without truth, how can deceit or misunderstanding exist? During my time at Aurum Vale, I did not always know what the truth was, or how to attain it—but it was there."

A long sip of water marked the end of that thought.

"Very well. You've talked quite a share about your time at Aurum Vale. Do you know what Miss Granger had been doing in the meantime?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of Auror Training! Thank you for bearing with me through these four chapters. It's a long, but important, arc in the story. If you're dying for more scenes from Aurum Vale, I've compiled a small collection of deleted scenes, and I've published it as a separate story, titled _Deleted Scenes from Tower Indigo: Auror Training_.
> 
> Lastly, I want to reiterate how appreciative I am of your time, favourites, bookmarks, and reviews! It means a lot to me.


	6. Root of All Evil

The harried witch hurried down Diagon Alley, head bowed and hands stuffed into the pockets of her robes, intent on reaching her destination with as little fuss as possible. Though it was the middle of the day and the sun beat unforgivingly down upon Britain, most of the inhabitants of the street, walking this way or that, had their hoods fully drawn. Naturally, she followed suit. The best way to eschew attention, after all, was to blend in with the crowd. Although, to call the thin trickle of anxious wizards a "crowd" was a bit of a stretch.

Much to her displeasure, her peripheral vision was largely obscured by the hood; she would just have to deal with it and hope that no potential assailant was silently following her. Furthermore, the incumbent heat, embracing her like a clingy Lethifold, left an uncomfortably sticky layer of sweat coating her forehead and neck. It was still preferable to the alternative, of course: if she were recognised... well, that just wouldn't do. But all of this effort was probably moot anyway, as sooner or later an Auror would take notice and confront her for not wearing the brown sash indicating she was a Muggle-born.

The once-raucous, vivacious Diagon Alley had been transformed into a dismal, muted shell of its former self, a fitting reflection of current society under the Ministry's new regime. Several stores dotting the street had long since closed down, boarded up with the implicit message that the owners would not return for the foreseeable future. Some had even been ransacked, looted for goods that some would consider nice to have, but others clearly deemed essential. Crimson-clad Aurors patrolled the streets in pairs, perfectly willing to abuse their power to detain anyone they deemed a "threat," however they chose to define that today. Maybe the unsuspecting denizen would be subject to a wand check and registration verification—or, perhaps, end up on the wrong side of a Ministry holding cell for a few days. Either way, this was something to be avoided.

Fortunately, Hermione had not yet passed too closely to any such Aurors. She may have been the smartest student of her year, thank you very much, but she doubted she was a match for any of Director Rookwood's soldiers. The Aurors under the old Ministry had been trained in a variety of disciplines, with duelling as just one of their focuses. But nowadays—from what she had heard, the Auror academy had been stripped down, with useful classes like inter-being cooperation and hostage negotiation being supplanted by extended practical training in how to fight, maim, and overpower. That's all they seemed to care for nowadays. Beating dissidents into conformance. There was no interest in justice or ethics: only power and control.

Besides, even if she could hold her own, a blanket of suppression wards smothered the alley: only Ministry-approved—that is to say, Ministry-tracked—wands functioned out here. And hers was most certainly not Ministry-approved.

As Hermione neared Gringotts, she quickened her pace. The ornate, marble building in front of her jutted high into the sky, casting an oblique shadow down on the ground—a refreshing reprieve from the early-afternoon blazing sun. As soon as her first foot stepped into the comfort of the shadow, she heard a shout from behind her.

"Excuse me, Miss!"

With a groan of disgust, she hastened her pace again, feet tapping arhythmically on the oddly-arranged cobblestone beneath her. She resisted the urge to look behind her—that would indubitably make her appear even more suspicious.

"Miss! Halt right there!"

She could only ignore the voice for so long before the situation got out of hand. As she power-walked forward, she unconsciously rested her hand on her wand, even though it was currently about as useful as a polished twig. Gringotts loomed ahead, closer than ever.

She would have to make a run for it.

Hiking her robes up above her ankles, she began to sprint toward the marble steps ahead. At some point, her hood slipped off, causing her to feel oddly naked in the dry heat of the midsummer day.

"I command you to stop where you are!" the gravelly voice shouted before sending a hex her way. The Bone-Breaking Curse whizzed by, narrowly missing her shoulder as she half-leapt, half-tripped to the right. She was thankful she had worn Muggle clothes beneath her robes today, making manoeuvring much easier than it might have been otherwise.

Two curses later—one of which had grazed her hip—she found herself at the steps of Gringotts. Doubling over, she fought to catch her breath, hands resting on her knees as she tried to regain control of her body. The goblin guards around her didn't move a muscle, didn't even heed her existence—why should they?—but the Auror who had been chasing her glared at her, murder in his eyes, before letting forth a slew of swears that would have melted a cauldron. He knew as well as she did that firing another spell would indubitably result in his immediate decapitation, and that approaching the steps of the bank would be nearly as painful.

Some two years ago, the goblins had declared the grounds of Gringotts to be fully under goblin rule. It was effectively foreign soil. Some Ministry business still took place inside the bank, but uniformed Aurors and all other militia were no longer permitted on the premises, and wand use was heavily regulated otherwise.

The witch shook her head to fully disentangle her bushy hair from the hood. Then, she subtly checked her pocket once again to confirm her wand was still there, and pulled the cuffs of her robe up to her elbows to make it abundantly clear she had no weapons hidden up her sleeves. While not strictly necessary, she frankly didn't trust the goblins not to make up an excuse to inconvenience her if it at all pleased them.

Taking a deep breath, she pulled her shoulders back, raised her chin, and entered the grandiose building.

These days, there were more guards than tellers on the ground floor of Gringotts. Behind every teller stood an ornery goblin sentry, armed to the teeth, ready to end the life of any foolish soul unfortunate enough to make a questionable move. Two ranks of soldiers flanked the entrance to Gringotts, and a phalanx of sixteen hoplites protected the opening to the vaults themselves.

As soon as she entered the hall, one guard detached himself from the ranks and followed her.

When she approached the teller, she cleared her throat.

"Yes?" the old goblin asked quite unkindly, as if he smelt a rather unpleasant dungbomb.

"Hermione Jane Granger, here for the reading of the will of Harry James Potter."

The goblin raised an eyebrow, clearly suspicious, and gestured toward the counter separating them. Hermione pulled a folded piece of parchment from her robe and set it in front of her.

The teller waved a gnarly, wrinkly finger, causing the parchment to unfold itself and float in front of him. He slowly read through it, occasionally glancing between it and the witch in front of him, evidently in no rush.

"Identification?"

Stifling a sigh of exasperation, she pulled out her key and laid it on the counter. In a similar motion, the goblin wriggled his finger and examined the key before giving a brief nod, picking up a quill and slowly writing a series of undecipherable symbols on the parchment.

"Registration number?"

"I don't have one," she said, pursing her lips and looking straight at the goblin.

She heard a rustling as her "personal escort" behind her took a half-step closer. But she didn't move.

"That seems unwise, Witch Granger," the teller finally said before making another notation on the parchment. Without another word, he folded the parchment and handed it back to her, waving her off. The teller turned to the sentry behind him and muttered something in Gobbledegook; the sentry nodded and gestured Hermione to follow him.

As they walked toward a nondescript door on the opposite end of the wall from the vaults, all that could be heard was the measured clacking of the goblins' iron boots on the polished floor below. The goblins effectively sandwiched her, with one in front, and one behind; neither of whom were shy in brandishing their grotesquely sharp weapons as they walked forward.

Her thoughts wandered back to the summer after fifth year. The Goblin Liaison Office had been intensifying their fruitless attempts to strong-arm the goblins into accepting slashed fees for Ministry business ventures. Finally, Head Goblin Orngok had snapped, locking down Gringotts and declaring the grounds of the bank completely off-limits to wizards. He had refused to reopen the bank until the Minister acquiesced to their demand of a rather handsome chunk of gold—as well as a series of stipulations on who would be allowed on the premises.

The shutdown had only lasted for two days, but that was sufficient to make it abundantly clear to those who didn't know otherwise, that the goblins cared not for banking, politics, Muggles, or wizards—only for the timeless, lustrous gleam of pure gold. Therein lay the goblins' sole loyalty.

Now more so than ever, the goblins and the Ministry regarded each other with wary eyes of ingrained distrust. Nevertheless, there still remained a crude and tentative "agreement" that some would mistakenly call a truce. That said, ever since the debacle two years ago, Fudge had been whispering sweet, golden-laden nothings into the ears and hands of the goblins, apparently trying to buy back their trust (if there had ever been any in the first place), and more importantly, cooperation. Only time would tell what would come of it.

As Hermione entered the reading room, she jumped back to the present and looked around. It was dimly lit, with stone benches around her seemingly carved out of the wall. A ceremonial table stood in the middle, with an ornate, goblin-wrought candelabra jutting up from its centre. An inspection of the room's inhabitants revealed only goblins—no other humans.

_Where is everybody? Where is Ron?_

The cast iron grandfather clock on the wall across from her read two minutes before the hour. The goblins were nothing if not sticklers for time: they would for certain start exactly at 10 a.m. Ron could never have been considered a punctual person, but she knew he would never arrive late to something as important as this.

Right?

An ancient goblin seated at a worn, wooden desk near the far wall cleared his throat. With an unnecessary flourish, he picked up a sealed envelope and pressed his finger against it; the envelope glowed blue and opened, revealing a rolled parchment which then unravelled and floated just above the desk.

"Thus begins the will of Harry James Potter," the goblin croaked out as his eyes roved across the text in front of him.

Hermione was momentarily thrown by the formality of Harry's will. Given the circumstances, she shouldn't have been terribly surprised—but still, she would have expected, and preferred, something a bit more... warm.

"I don't have much to give. Not as much as most would expect from the great Harry Potter, the Chosen One, and so on. I always considered my treasures in the people around me, not in the gold sitting in a dusty vault."

Where in the world was Ron? She couldn't help but feel worried that something had happened to him.

"To Ronald Weasley, my best mate. You offered your friendship to me when you had no idea who I was. You stood by me, time and time again, no matter what life threw at me. You kept me sane, humble, and showed me what it was like to have a real family. For you, I leave half the contents of my vault. At the time of this writing, that will be just shy of three thousand Galleons. I know, you're going to try to refuse—but you have no choice."

Hermione rubbed the stray tear from her eye, but she couldn't help but feel just a bit smug. For years, rumours had abounded of Harry's great, hidden wealth. Millions of Galleons stashed away; trust funds and heir's vaults scattered around the bowels of Gringotts; unplottable castles located in various tropical countries. She'd never bothered asking him if they were true—for one, it was quite a rude topic to bring up in conversation—but she had always been sure the rumours were as ridiculous as those claiming that she was Harry's secret lover.

"To Hermione Granger, the best girl a bloke could ask for. You taught me to stand by my beliefs even when no one else would. You constantly kept me out of trouble, or saved my arse when I got into it. You've always had my back, and I know you always will. Even if I were to march to the gates of hell, you would be there at my side. I leave you the other half of my vault. Not as payment for what you've given me, but as an inadequate token of insufficient gratitude."

By now, the tears had begun leaking out in earnest. This was not how things should have turned out, and they both knew it. But what was done, was done.

"I'm sorry things had to end this way. As much as you might think otherwise, I truly believe that this was the best outcome.

"As Headmaster Dumbledore once said at our leaving feast: 'Death is but the next great adventure.' Don't be discouraged. I will see you both once again during the next adventure: after all, there is so much more to be done. I believe in both of you. Fight the good fight."

Hermione paused from wiping her cheeks dry and looked toward the goblin, head tilted to the side in thought. Professor Dumbledore had most definitely not uttered those words during the leaving feast— _any_ of their leaving feasts. She would know, after all, as she was probably the only person in the school who actually paid attention to them.

More importantly, Harry would have known that...

A sudden groaning creak perforated the gloomy silence, and Hermione snapped her head up to locate the source of the offending noise. In the far corner of the room, a dark oak door not-so-quietly swung on its hinges, revealing a most unwelcome face behind it.

She stifled a gasp and unwittingly shrunk down on the bench, glad that the poor lighting in the room offered her some shelter.

"Hem, hem," simpered the rotund woman as she bored her way into the room, followed by a file of four black-clad, stony-faced wizards. "I apologise for my tardiness," she said in a saccharine voice that suggested quite the opposite.

"Witch Umbridge," huffed the goblin with a tone that clearly suggested he was not used to being interrupted. "To what do we owe this... intrusion?"

"I am here in my capacity as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Goblin," she spat. The squat woman held out her hand expectantly and one of her insipid followers handed her a scroll. Then, she unrolled it and proceeded to read aloud:

"Ministry Edict one hundred and thirty-eight. Any deceased wizard, having been found in violation of Ministry law, shall forfeit their property, and any will therein related thus rendered null and void. The contents of the vault shall be relinquished to the Ministry of Magic, minus a fifteen percent processing fee."

At this, the goblin's scowl quickly morphed into a thirsty grin that made it clear that he knew the beneficiary of the 'processing fee.'

Dolores Umbridge looked up from the parchment and smiled sweetly. "It pains me so dearly to say that Mr Potter seems to be the first... _subject_ of this edict. Quite an unfortunate turn of events for a boy so venerated. Practising unapproved magic. Conspiracy to incite civil discord—"

"How _dare_ you!" Hermione snapped, leaping from her seat far more quickly than she'd ever remembered moving before. Umbridge whipped around, eyes briefly widening as she noticed the young witch for the first time—a witch whose face had blanched in unsuppressed fury, with eyes flashing myriad colours as only those of a magical being could. "You know full well that's entirely Ministry propaganda!"

"Ah, Miss Granger," the woman said after recovering from her moment of shock. "I see you're alive and... unfettered. I also see that you are still not wearing Ministry-approved attire."

Hermione heaved a deep breath, trying to relax. She let her hand rest on her wand in caution, but the goblin beside her stiffened and raised his pike threateningly.

"Madam Umbridge," she finally responded, voice tense as she tried not to scream at the woman. "Your powers of observation are second only to your pedagogical aptitude."

"It's _Chief_ Umbridge," the witch snipped. "Listen, dear. You may think it's noble or admirable to follow in your boyfriend's steps. To defy the Ministry, flouting the law at every turn. But it isn't. The only thing it does is make you look like a fool. Besides," she stepped forward and hissed, "there is nothing you can do. I'm in charge here, so you had better watch your mouth."

"And if I don't?" responded Hermione in an equally low voice. "Are you going to have your Aurors try to arrest me again?"

"THEY'RE NOT—" Umbridge cleared her throat and briefly looked around at the goblins. "These are clearly not Aurors. Perhaps the great Hermione Granger has forgotten? Aurors are not allowed on the premises. These are simply my assistants."

"I didn't realise Ministry assistants were provisioned matching Dragonhide wand holsters."

The "assistant" closest to Hermione paled, swiftly withdrawing his hand from his opposite sleeve, which fell back down to cover his forearm once again.

"Smart remarks or not, you have no say in this. This is my gold now. Try to stop me—I dare you."

Hermione stared back, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish. Not because she couldn't think of anything to say—on the contrary, there was a whole slew of retorts she had ready to go—but because of the sheer audacity of that horrid... slag. It was one thing to slander a wizard in his grave, but to _steal his money_? She couldn't even—what in God's name was this woman's issue?

Trembling, she balled her fists by her sides while trying to resist the urge to whip her wand out and hex Umbridge to the far side of the moon. Oh, she knew she could. But the consequences would be rather detrimental to her health. If Harry were here, he would probably yell at her for even considering something so shortsighted.

She sniffed at the irony—usually it would have been the other way around. Harry and Ron going off on some half-cocked scheme, and her trying to drill some sense into them.

"Enough of this—waste of my time. Goblin," Umbridge turned once again to the wooden desk at which the goblin was seated, holding out her hand imperiously.

"Yes?" he asked slowly, clearly refusing to acknowledge her obvious gesture.

"...the will? Let's see it, then."

"Very well, Witch Umbridge." He plucked the document from the air in front of him, slowly rolled it up, and held it out in his own hand.

Umbridge harrumphed and stomped over to the desk, snatching the document and quickly skimming over it.

"What?!" she exploded, looking for all the world like she herself would literally explode at any moment. "Only six thousand Galleons—where's the rest of it?"

"Not enough stolen money to fill your purse?" Hermione asked flatly.

Umbridge sneered, affixing Hermione with a look that said if she had her way, the young Gryffindor would be the next "subject" of Ministry Edict 138.

"You... _Mudblood_ ." Her face turned a deep shade of purple and her mouth twisted into a grotesque snarl that gave even an African bullfrog a bad name. "You took the rest of it — _where is it?_ "

Hermione didn't bother dignifying that with a response.

"Theft from the Ministry of Magic—I will have you executed—you will come with me at once!"

The girl stared at her with colourless ice in her eyes. Then, with nary a word, Hermione Granger turned and left through the same door she had entered from. Umbridge and her not-Aurors made to follow her, but the goblin guards apparently blocked them off, because when Hermione reached the main lobby of Gringotts, no-one except a heavily-armoured goblin was behind her.

She desperately wanted to collapse onto her bed and just cry—and then blast a variety of fragile objects into smithereens while imagining that each one was Umbridge's loathsome head. But she couldn't do that now; she first had to get out of Diagon Alley.

Doubtless the steps of Gringotts would be the focus of more than a bit of Auror attention. Unfortunately, that was the only way out. She couldn't very well stay here all day, especially with the evening curfew that was introduced two days ago.

She would need a distraction.

The perfect deus ex machina came in the form of a family of wizards ahead of her. The family of five were huddled around the marble counter, finishing up a transaction with an irate goblin. The family comprised two grown men, an older woman, a teenage girl, and a small child who couldn't have been older than seven or eight. All four adults wore green sashes, indicating they were half-bloods.

Even if she were missing a sash, the Aurors would hardly notice a sixth person in the "family." Or so she hoped.

Upon reaching the main entrance, Hermione paused and rummaged through her bag aimlessly, ostensibly to find some misplaced item, but in reality to buy time for the family to conclude their business. Once they finally came and passed her by, she pulled up the rear, staying far enough back so the family wouldn't confront her, but close enough that an inattentive Auror would assume she was part of their group.

After a few minutes, the family of blonds and off-blonds veered away into Madam Malkin's; Hermione took that chance to flip her hood up once again and aim for her exit route. Though Apparition was by far the quickest way home, she would avoid the designated Apparition point. Naturally, she had aced her test last year, but the area near the Apparition point was practically swarming with Aurors and other Ministry sympathisers.

Instead, she slipped past Ollivanders and headed for the alley's Muggle exit. This end of the street was nearly deserted, so she was understandably thrown when she heard the soft clacking of human steps behind her. She immediately whirled around, but saw no one.

Maybe she was simply imagining things. She hadn't been sleeping well this past week, and she knew more than most what the brain could do when it was piloting an exhausted ship.

There it was again—a muffled scuttling noise on the uneven bricks several metres back.

Was she being followed? She wouldn't put it past Umbridge to have someone tail her until she was met with an unfortunate "accident." She groaned. She wasn't good at this cloak and dagger stuff.

After all, she had a cloak—but no dagger.

Quickening her pace, Hermione turned into a small alley leading to the exit into Muggle London. Without breaking stride, she drew her wand and tapped the off-colour brick twice, squeezing through the opening even as the last of the bricks were still shifting to the side. This time, she kept her wand in her hand, hidden in the folds of her robes. Her suspicions were confirmed when she heard two more taps of wood on brick, ringing through the otherwise-silent alley.

She hastened through the Leaky Cauldron, ignoring Tom's taciturn greeting, and left through the grungy door leading to the street. When she exited and turned the corner, she frowned at the crowds of Muggles passing by and the debris scattered on the ground. But as she traversed a large, soggy piece of cardboard that had likely been embedded in the sidewalk for the past week, she was rewarded with a sudden idea.

Without feeling the slightest modicum of guilt, the witch discreetly waved her wand in a cross pattern and whispered, " _Locum Reponus_." A small flash of pale yellow light confirmed that her Switching Spell had been mostly successful.

As her unwanted stalker turned the corner, he stepped onto the same sheet of cardboard as she had moments earlier, but yelped as his foot tore through it and brought the man plummeting some ten metres down into London's finest sewer system. With all that said... she wasn't quite sure where the manhole cover had ended up.

Well, someone was sure to find it eventually.

Finally, she abruptly changed directions and allowed herself to be swept up in a crowd of rowdy Muggles before turning into a nearby pub, _The Giggling Gargoyle_. Panting slightly, she leaned against the wall inside to catch her breath—she was pretty sure she had lost her tail, ensconced as he likely was in a bath of mid-London sewage.

A survey of the room indicated that she was garnering more than a fair share of odd looks, probably due to her wizarding robes which stuck out like two sore thumbs and a flag. However, she wasn't overly concerned. The sort of folk that frequented a pub in the middle of the day weren't the type that took inordinate interest in minor oddities such as this—or the type whose testimony was oft trusted in the first place.

Sure enough, the various patrons of the "establishment" soon returned to their drinks, raucous laughter, and incoherent mumblings. That is, all of the patrons except for a group of four seated at a misshapen table in the back corner, who were throwing her mixed looks of apathy, disdain, and annoyance.

Hermione squinted, peering through the sluggish wisps of smoke that were somehow made more visible by the dim lighting of the tavern. Finally, she was able to make out four familiar faces—courtesy of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Megan Jones, an unassuming Hufflepuff girl from a middle-class Muggle family, sat next to Dean Thomas, with an arm around the back of the boy's chair. The two of them had started dating near the end of their sixth year and apparently had become altogether inseparable.

The other side of the table was occupied by Cho Chang and Sally-Anne Perks. Even though they were a year apart, and in different houses, Cho and Sally-Anne had been friends since their early years at Hogwarts. At one point, Hermione had also been close with Sally-Anne, but at some point during their third year they had drifted apart.

It wasn't clear what the four occupants of the table had in common, except for the obvious: they, like most of the other Muggle-borns and half-bloods of Hogwarts, avoided Hermione like a Blast-Ended Skrewt. Not because she was Muggle-born _ipso facto_ , but because she refused to register herself to the Ministry—or wear that ridiculous sash.

Her decision to defy the Ministry had ended up alienating most of the student body. Even after Professor Dumbledore, fully intent on easing the imposed social divide, had ordered everyone to burn their sashes, most people wouldn't give her a second glance. After all, it could be _dangerous_ to associate with Hermione Granger, the infamous Dissident. The Ministry might start to question one's loyalty.

She sniffled and quickly wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. By now she understood how Harry had felt during second year. This past semester, the majority of the castle's population had been sure to give her a wide berth, never daring to even meet her gaze. Even with her two best friends by her side—and Ginny and Luna, to boot—the relentless isolation had really done a number on her. Not that she'd ever admit it out loud.

But now that they had graduated, things were different. Former students were now adults, with their own jobs, principles, and lives. No longer were social interactions exercised based simply on how one was judged by peers; instead, actions were informed by critical reasoning skills and common sense. Gone was the time where one was told what to think by others.

Right?

She would be remiss if she didn't at least make another effort. She gathered a deep breath and slowly released it. Then, gathering all the droplets of courage she could muster, she marched over to the table.

"Hey, Dean," she said to the one person she felt comfortable addressing out of the blue. To complete her greeting, she then gave an awkward, noncommittal wave to the three girls around the table.

Dean shrunk back as if attempting to become a shadow himself.

"Hermione," Cho hissed in a very un-Cho-like manner. The older girl rapidly swung her head in an arc, surveying each of the pub's grimy windows, before leaning forward so she could speak in an even lower whisper. "Are you trying to get us all arrested?"

"No, just—relax, he's got no idea where I am—"

"You're being _followed_?" squeaked Megan. At this, Dean lurched forward to grab her hand, squeezing it; possibly to comfort the blond, but more likely as a plea to quiet down.

"I just told you, I lost him." Hermione huffed in irritation, inadvertently blowing a stray lock of hair aside. But then the corners of her mouth quirked just slightly. "A simple Switching Spell, really. To be honest, I'm surprised it worked as well as it did."

"Jesus!" Cho stared at her in disbelief. "You used magic in the middle of Muggle London? You're gonna get us killed!"

Hermione opened her mouth but struggled to think of a good response. "You know," she eventually said, "I bet it's easy to sit there and wag your fingers... Tell me all the things I shouldn't do... Believe it or not, I'm trying to do the right thing here."

"The right thing? Granger, you're..." Sally-Anne trailed off. After a pensive moment, she continued, voice much softer than before. "You're going to get yourself in a lot of trouble. I don't know when or where, but sooner or later... I appreciate what you're trying to prove, but _this_ "—the girl waved at Hermione's robes—"isn't the way to do it."

"Then what is?" she snipped back. She tightly pursed her lips in an attempt to prevent the flow of tears.

No response was forthcoming.

"That's what I thought. It's just a game to you, isn't it? Just hoping you can stick your head in the gravel long enough for all this to pass?"

"What is there to do, Hermione?" Dean spoke for the first time. "There's nothing... You can't seriously expect us to fight back against the entire Ministry of Magic."

"So, what, you'll just stay here and hide in a Muggle pub, waiting until Fudge comes to stick it up your arse?" the girl snapped, long past caring about propriety. "This isn't going to magically fix itself—"

"And you think waltzing around with a death wish on your head is going to change everything?"

She clenched her teeth, body quivering in anger—and frustration.

"No... I—I don't know! But at least I'm doing _something_! That's more than any of you can say," she added with a tinge of despondence.

"Please, just... Get out of here," Megan said timidly. "Leave us out of this."

Hermione harrumphed, and then with a final sniff she turned and fled the pub, slamming the rickety door behind her as she emerged onto the sweltering street. She could feel the tingles of magic jumping up and down her arms as she blindly stormed down the streets of London, Muggles unconsciously parting around her as their bodies instinctively adhered to their primary biological directive of self-preservation.

_How dare they!_ she nearly screamed into the crowds of people around her. Slaves of complacency, the whole lot of them. Convinced that it was _she_ who needed to justify her actions. As if she needed an excuse to try to maintain her dignity. That should be the default reaction to something as asinine as this. Not kowtowing to the Ministry, bending over to appease their every vile, despotic whim. "I have nothing to hide," people like Megan Jones would say. "What's the harm in registering?"

These people had no sense of history, principle, or self-respect.

"Agh!" she eventually screamed in frustration, kicking an empty bottle so that it careened into the wall and shattered.

The absolute _nerve_.

And apathy notwithstanding—who did Sally-Anne think she was, berating her like a six-year old caught stealing cookies from the jar? Going off like she was some hot-headed fool intent on slapping a dragon in the face. What other recourse did she have? Start hexing Aurors left and right? As if that would accomplish anything—other than finding herself incarcerated. Or dead.

The angry tears stung as they trailed down her cheek; she didn't bother wiping them away. When she found an abandoned alleyway, it took her three attempts before she was able to gather the focus to Apparate safely.

After a quick but immensely uncomfortable trip, Hermione landed in her parents' back garden. The Apparition did nothing to soften her mood; if anything, it had only intensified it. She immediately stormed toward the back entrance of the house, absently flicking her wand twice to unlock and then blast the door open. Ignoring her mum's gasp, she proceeded to the family room where she collapsed on the sofa, finally allowing her mask to drop and breaking down into a fount of sobs.

Hermione lay on her side, half-curled up on the pale blue cushions, with her bushy hair falling over her face in disarray. After a long several minutes, her sobs eased and she was left with an occasional hiccough and sniffle as she stared despondently into the pillow she was hugging to her face. She didn't react as the cushion under her hips dipped to accompany the weight of a new person.  
  
"Honey... what's wrong?" came the soft voice of Jane Granger. When she didn't bother to respond, the woman gently rubbed her daughter's shoulder. "Hermione."

With a deep sigh, Hermione awkwardly rolled over to lie on her back, sighing once more when she heard her father's distinctive footsteps on the other side of the room. She pretended not to notice the worried glance that her parents shared, instead focusing on staring up at the drab ceiling.

Jane was idly picking at Hermione's dark robes, as if trying to remove the nonexistent lint from them; it was one of her mother's nervous tics. Very rarely did the girl wear wizarding robes in the house—and when she did, only very briefly before changing—so to see their only daughter like this was probably distinctly unfamiliar for them. Similarly, she refrained whenever possible from using magic within sight of her parents, so her mother would be undoubtedly unnerved by her casual display of nonverbal magic earlier.

Finally, Hermione responded in a low tone. "I went to the will reading today." She brought her hands up to scrub what moisture she could from her eyes. "I... It's—ugh!"

On the lamp stand by her head, a small picture frame cracked, causing Jane to jump.

"They just... I just want to strangle them!" she snapped, her voice uncharacteristically cracking.

"The... goblins?" her mum asked carefully, resting a sympathetic hand on the girl's leg.

"No, Mum... well, yes, them too—no, the _Ministry_ !" she spat. "They annulled Harry's will and —and they're just _taking_ everything he had!"

"What?!" Richard Granger spoke for the first time. "Is that even legal?"

Hermione scoffed and muttered darkly, "It is now."

"But why? Why would your Ministry even do that?"

She could have almost laughed at the strangely innocent and naive expression on his face. But she didn't. Perhaps it was time to come clean. She had been withholding crucial information from her parents since the end of fourth year, desperate as she was to be allowed to stay in school. But now that she was graduated and of age, it hardly mattered any more.

"Dad... Mum," she began, very intentionally avoiding their gazes. "I... haven't been exactly honest with you."

And so she proceeded to explain what had befallen the wizarding world since the end of the Triwizard Tournament. Umbridge's new position as Chief Warlock. Thicknesse's—and then Rookwood's—appointments to Head of the DMLE. The Wizarding Security Act and the sash she refused to wear. And, most recently, the Muggle-born curfew and Ministry Edict 138.

To her parents' credit, both of them remained largely silent as she told her story. But by the time she finished talking, her tears were once again falling, and she was powerless to stop them. Now, she just continued to stare up at the same spot on the ceiling, asking herself again and again if she really was doing the right thing.

"Honey... you need to go to the police," Jane said after a pregnant silence.

"Haven't you been listening?" Hermione shot back, turning a heated glare on her mother, who had the decency to look abashed. "The Aurors _are_ the police! They're part of this whole bloody mess!"

"Language, dear," Richard chastised automatically, but even he knew his heart wasn't into it.

Hermione heaved a deep sigh. "Sorry," she sniffed.

Without a word, her mum leaned over to envelop her in a hug. Hermione breathed in deeply, allowing the fresh, floral scent of her mother's hair to loosen her mind and ease her worries somewhat. Then, she slowly brought her arms around to return the embrace.

When she finally pulled back, Hermione murmured, so quietly that she wasn't sure that even her mother would hear her, "I just don't know if I'm doing the right thing."

"How do you mean?"

"I'm... maybe I'm being ridiculous. Maybe Sally-Anne was right. It's not like what I'm doing will actually make a difference..." She trailed off, reluctant to even finish the sentence for fear of what she would conclude.

"Won't it, though?" asked Richard. Upon seeing Hermione's look of confusion, he continued. "How many bricks make up a bridge? How many tiny pieces of sand go into a brick?"

Hermione snorted. "This is hardly a bridge, Dad. Maybe a stair step."

Richard appraised her briefly before surrendering a faint smile. "Maybe so. But I will say this: it is far easier to do what's easy than what's right. And between you and me... it sounds like you have a difficult journey ahead of you."

"I just... don't know what to do," she eventually said in a voice barely above a whisper. "I'm in over my head. I can't... I'm not a fighter. That was always Ron and Harry..."

A tense silence enveloped the room until it was interrupted by Richard. "Hermione, did I ever tell you about my Aunt Marva?"

The witch slowly shook her head, missing the warning glance that Jane shot to her husband.

"Your great aunt—Nan's half-sister—was born in Belgium in... it must have been the early twenties. She grew up in a large military city named Namur. Her father was an attorney for the governor, so they lived comfortably. Even during the Great Depression, he did quite well enough for the family; neither he nor Marva ever wanted for much.

"Sadly, he fell terribly ill when she was just sixteen or seventeen, and Marva had to find a means to support them. She was eventually able to land a job cooking at a small diner, but it didn't pay that well—none of them did, really. There weren't many options for an untrained, teenaged girl in the middle of a depression.

"To everyone's surprise, hers most of all, she turned out to be quite the culinarian. Despite the economy of the time, the diner's popularity grew as word spread of its new cook. Against all odds, especially as a woman, she was quickly promoted and enjoyed wages that were nearly enough to actually support her and dad."

Richard sighed, removing his glasses and squeezing the bridge of his nose.

"Unfortunately, just a year later, her father passed away. He'd contracted some kind of infection in his eyes and brain, a complication of his previous illness. The doctors couldn't find any way to treat him.

"At the same time as all of this, the Germans were becoming aggressive. Hitler was rising in notoriety and power, and finally news got out that Nazi Germany had invaded Poland. Not long after, they moved to occupy Belgium. In the blink of an eye, the society of Namur collapsed. Shops closed, food all but disappeared, Jews were persecuted... at least the ones that were caught. Many of them hid: attics, basements, abandoned hovels; some fled the city, but most stayed.

"Aunt Marva was fortunate: her reputation in the kitchen had preceded her. The Nazis ensured her diner remained open, and it soon became a popular venue for the soldiers. Leveraging her small bit of fame and flavour with the Nazis, she began to curry their favour. Her precociousness paid off; she was often rewarded with extra supplies for the diner, a bottle of alcohol slipped under the table, or a few Reichsmarks here and there.

"Do you know what she did with that bit of extra food? She didn't keep it for herself or try to sell it, no. She took every last crumb of it to cook for the Jews in hiding. In the dead of the night she would sneak out to wherever she could to distribute what little she could. It wasn't glamorous; it wasn't much; she wasn't a member of Service D. But your aunt did what she could."

"...but, I can't cook..." Hermione eventually mumbled quite absently.

"Honey, it's not..." He chuckled, casually shaking his head in amusement. "Marva played to her strengths. She wasn't even twenty, but she did what she felt was right, and she did it the only way she knew how. I know that you'll do the same. Maybe you're not a fighter, but you've always had a good head on your shoulders, just like your mum." At this, Jane flashed him an appreciative smile. "When that horrid snake was attacking the school, _you_ found out how to kill it. When that innocent man was arrested, _you_ devised the plan to save him. Whatever it is you decide to do... we have faith in you."

Her mum squeezed her leg reassuringly and then spoke for the first time in several minutes. "I don't like this one bit. I don't like that you're going back out there and openly defying your government... but I also know that we can't stop you." She gave the witch a short but warm smile. "You've always done what you thought was right, and this time is no different."

Hermione stared back with a mix of surprise and wonder. She'd been so sure her parents would try to convince her of her foolishness, or simply drag the family off to Australia to avoid the entire issue. In all honesty, she felt a bit guilty for thinking so little of her parents, "simple Muggles" who just "wouldn't understand the situation." She flushed.

"But with all that said... Isn't it dangerous to be out in the open with all those wizards? This whole registration thing is commendable, but—will you be safe teaching next year?"

Hermione couldn't help but let the corners of her mouth creep up just a bit.

"Don't worry, Mum, Hogwarts is safe. The Charter declares that it's sovereign ground. The Ministry doesn't have any authority at the school. Besides, I can take care of myself," she said with finality, absentmindedly tapping her wand.

"In that case..." Jane started, before leaning down to embrace the girl once more. This time, Hermione smiled widely as she sunk into her mother's embrace, and then went over to hug her dad as well.

She used the sleeve of her robe to wipe her face one last time, removing the last bit of evidence of her afternoon full of tears. Then, she primly smoothed down her robes, and without another word, turned on her heel.

"Honey, where are you going?"

But she didn't hear the question. Instead, she dashed up the stairs to her neat but cosy bedroom. The discussion with her parents had stirred something inside her, something she hadn't felt in a long time. But at this very moment, she needed someplace quiet, someplace comfortable.

Someplace to think.

#

"Miss Granger seemed to be in a tough position."

Indigo 9733 flicked a grimy lock of hair from his face before jerkily nodding.

"This was largely unfamiliar territory for her. I dare not call her a 'follower,' but from what I understand, it was usually Potter and Weasley who would instigate trouble, with Granger coming along to try to keep them out of it—not the other way around. You must understand, Granger's strengths were manyfold. She was unparallelled in her academics, critical thinking, research... and she damn well knew her magic inside and out. But direct confrontation had never been her preference. I certainly don't mean to imply she never took part in it—I heard astonishing stories about her run-ins with young Malfoy and Chief Umbridge—but I digress," he said, shaking his head and gesturing vaguely with his hand. "She knew her abilities, and she knew that her primary strengths lay beyond the battlefield."

"Not Auror material, then?"

"I wouldn't say that. I'm sure she could thrash even me in a fight, even if she'd never admit it... But, no, there were other things that she was meant to do. If there was anyone who could lead a resistance against the Ministry of Magic, it was her."

"What about you, Indigo? It seemed that you were already well on your way to your own attempted revolution."

Indigo's face shifted to reveal a cold, dangerous smile. "Perhaps, but at the end of the day, I was merely a muscle man. She was the one with the brains." His smile eased and he took on a more serious tone. "Don't _ever_ underestimate Hermione Granger. In more ways than one, _she_ was the true catalyst of the resistance that continues today—the resistance that crippled the Ministry."

The Unspeakable froze, staring intently at the prisoner. Then, he carefully crossed out a line on his parchment with his once-ornate quill.

"Indigo... I'm not sure what you've been told in your time here—which should be decidedly nothing, given your _status_ —but..."

"...but what?" the old wizard asked with a hint of trepidation.

"The resistance was wiped out shortly after your arrival here. There is no more rebellion."

Indigo stared back impassively, wheels clearly turning in his eyes as he appraised the man across from him.

"Of course, Unspeakable. My mistake. I apologise for my ignorance."


	7. Power of the Press

_ The turn of the decade saw a critical inflection point in Gellert Grindelwald's chaotic regime. By now, he had finally amassed enough followers to realise the execution of his hitherto-academic conception, the Quelling. _

_ The Quelling was an overzealous response to the rapid growth of the Muggle population in comparison to that of the wizarding community. While staunch in his belief of superior wizarding intellect and power, Grindelwald recognised and readily admitted the potential danger of a Muggle army if one were to rise up against wizardkind. With the understanding that Muggles, due to their inferior aptitude, were meant to be subjugated to their wizarding counterparts, Grindelwald advanced toward the logical extreme: that the Muggle numbers were to be thinned as much as practical, thereby eliminating any potential opposition. Hence, the Quelling. _

_ With a critical mass of loyalists backing this creed, Grindelwald now possessed the manpower to bring to fruition his brainchild. Muggle-borns and other wizards of questionable blood were snatched from their homes in the dark of the night and subjected to any of various mind-altering magicks, including the Mancipium Draught and Imperius Curse. Grindelwald would then use these puppets to attack Muggle villages, killing the inhabitants while leaving the buildings themselves untouched: 'ghost towns,' as the Muggles described them. In their minds, the terminology was meant as an indicator of desertion, but unbeknownst to them, the ghostly remnants of the previous owners did haunt many of the buildings. _

_ The tendrils of Grindelwald's influence spread far beyond the borders of Britain; east to Estonia, south to Egypt, and even west across the Atlantic to parts of the United States. Due to the extensive reach of the Quelling, and the absolute anonymity with which Grindelwald's followers operated, the wizarding world at large steadily succumbed to an overwhelming sentiment of fear and distrust... _

Hermione's eyes flitted over the spiky black text as she continued to skim the pages of the thick, musty tome. It was a magnificent history lesson, if covertly biased, and she found herself —as always—wishing she had more time in the day to unpack it all. The content was more relevant than ever, she was sure: an adumbral hint of what was to come. 'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it,' George Santayana had once written. She had no intention of being caught blindsided.

Nevertheless, this was not actually what she was looking for at the moment; she would have to come back to  _ A True Wizard's History _ later. With a sigh, she gingerly closed the cover and set the tome to her right, then picked up the next, much smaller book from the towering stack on her left:  _ Grindelwald: the Great, the Grim, and the Gruesome _ . With a practised hand, she flipped it open to a spot about two-thirds of the way in and began leafing through pages, rapidly scanning the text for something —anything—that could be relevant to her situation.

"Emancipation... Dumbledore... Quelling," she idly mumbled as she flew through section headers, until she eventually found —"Defeat." Perfect.

She began to read:

_ Despite Gellert Grindelwald's attempt to cleanse the world 'For the Greater Good' (his ardent motto), ultimately it was the case that society only deteriorated during the height of his regime. It was only after Grindelwald's eventual fall from power in 1945 that the wizarding world was able to begin its slow crawl back toward peace. Over the next five years, law-enforcement ranks swelled and attendance to the eleven magical institutions worldwide rebounded to record levels. Within a mere decade of the war's end, the wizarding community had completely rallied, proving just how robust and resilient wizardkind can be, even in the aftermath of a tyrant's rule. _

She scowled and snapped the book shut, tossing it across the room onto her bed where it landed with a muffled  _ thump _ . At any other time she would have been affronted to find someone treat a textbook with such disrespect, but at the moment she just couldn't bring herself to care terribly.

"And they all lived happily ever after." It was as if the author had intentionally concocted some trite fairy tale. She only wished that had been the case after Voldemort's defeat.

Sadly, life just wasn't fair: Harry had vanquished a Dark Wizard and all he'd received was a farce of a funeral and an unappreciative society that had quickly devolved into an absolutist autocracy.

And that was what had brought her to this point —in her bedroom on a cloudy mid-summer day, surrounded by a wall of books that would make a librarian cower.

Hermione had been up since before dawn, poring over a small mountain of literature she had acquired at a variety of magical libraries the day before. Despite the impressive number of books heaped on her desk and floor —and now, bed—her harvest was rather lower than she had expected. To her surprise, it was much harder to find history books in the public libraries and book stores than it had been at Hogwarts. Perhaps the wizarding public was less interested in the topic than students (or, more accurately, their professors) were. Or... perhaps the Ministry simply  _ wanted  _ the wizarding public to be less interested.

At any rate, she'd located a paltry two dozen suitable books, and she had spent the better part of the morning combing through the lot; searching for anything that could help her understand or at least contextualise the Ministry's atrocities. Searching for any record, any indication of civil unrest. Precedence. Guidance. A hint of what her next steps should be.

After all, history never lied. Sometimes it was uninteresting, or misleading, or unhelpful —as she was currently discovering—but it never lied.

Clearly the Great War of Grindelwald was not going to be a fount of useful information as she'd originally hoped. She decided to switch books again, this time moving further back in history: the Carpathian Conflict in the early eighteenth century. The author, Claudius Cuculiformus, wrote of steep inflation and rapidly-escalating food scarcity in several regions including Romania, Ukraine, and former Moldavia. The involved ministries were at their wits' end; they were forced to introduce extreme rationing just to be able to keep their citizens fed. Even magic couldn't reliably mitigate the issue, as real food couldn't be transfigured or conjured —one of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration.

To her utter dismay —an emotion she felt only slightly guilty for harbouring—after a three-year conflict that spread the breadth and depth of the Carpathian mountain range, the remnants of the remaining magical communities had banded together with their ministries to overthrow the Tasnad Triad.

Once again, they all lived heavily after.

She let out a long, agonised groan of frustration, resisting the fierce urge to show Mr Cuculiformus what she thought of his history lesson. Instead, she let her head drop to the desk, allowing her eyes to close as the smooth, polished wood pressed uncomfortably against her forehead. She stayed in that position for several minutes, idly wondering how long it would take until the front of her skull flattened to match the surface of the desk, until at long last she dragged herself to her feet and glumly surveyed the room.

The cream walls were largely bare except for a single poster, now peeling and faded, that hung opposite her, directly over her bed. She had acquired it so many years ago, when she and her parents had gone to see a group called Holiday on Ice. Hermione had enjoyed the ice show so much that she had demanded her parents buy her a signed poster featuring two of the Italian ice skaters whom she had been particularly fond of.

Below the poster sat a modest, plump bed, tucked into the corner of the bedroom. Its sheets and pillows were frumpled; she hadn't bothered to make her bed after getting up at four in the morning. Her mum would surely understand.

By the door was a floor-to-ceiling bookcase that had long since been filled to the brim with every imaginable genre of literature. She was sure that one of these days the tower would simply collapse under the sheer weight of its contents, but that had yet to happen. There were indubitably a whole slew of spells created for the sole purpose of reinforcing a piece of furniture, but for some reason, she felt like using one would be cheating.

Her heart skipped when she heard a light tapping against her window. A small, tawny owl was sitting on the outer ledge, staring at Hermione imperiously as it waited to deliver its post. She jumped and rushed to let the bird in. No point in drawing more attention to the house than necessary by letting a mail owl be gawked at by neighbours.

When she untied the letter from the owl, she faltered as she saw the name of the addressee, written in a tight, neat script on the front of the envelope:

_ Ezra Rowe _

It was her own letter that she had sent two days ago —returned unopened.

It was the second time this week that one of her letters had been returned. The first was the one she'd sent nearly four days ago to Ron. Maybe she shouldn't have been overly surprised when it had come back unopened, but it hadn't made her feel any better. The last time they had really spoken was at the funeral, where he had awkwardly implied that in his mind, it was Harry who had always bound the trio together; that trying to force a friendship otherwise would only end in more pain and confusion.

Or maybe she would only continue to remind him of his best mate. Either way, she hoped that a bit of time apart would help Ron come to terms with the whole situation.

Hermione turned her attention back to the letter that she was slowly turning over in her hands. There was no point in opening it; she knew what it said. Why had Ezra not responded? The blasted boy had been on her mind for the past several days, and it was starting to irritate her. The least he could do was write back saying he was alive and well. She was beginning to regret what she said to him at the funeral. That had only been a week ago, but already it felt like months in the past.

She sighed and sank down to the floor.

Was Ezra intentionally ignoring her? Surely he wasn't that petty. No, she knew for a fact that he wasn't that petty.

It was also possible that he was somewhere unplottable, but she couldn't think of any unplottable locations large enough to prevent owls from locating their inhabitants. Even most heavily-warded homes typically permitted owl mail, unless the owners erected specific charms against it.

There was a third possibility... but she dare not even think about it.

For what felt like hours, Hermione sat there twirling the envelope around her fingers, until the paper began to wrinkle and curl from the extended handling. With a huff, she finally tossed it into the waste bin beside her. There was just too much going on to have this weighing on her mind as well.

A sharp knock at the door knocked her from her focused irritation. "What?" she snapped.

"Hermione, it's —are you okay?" asked Jane as she cracked the bedroom door and peered in. When she noticed her daughter hunched up against the wall, she slipped inside and shut the door behind her.

"I'm..." she expelled an anxious breath. "Never mind. Just... a long day." She gestured helplessly to the room as a whole —to the pile of books splayed over her desk and floor; to the open window above her; to the waste bin that was now just a bit fuller.

"I see," her mum said, though she quite clearly didn't. Despite this, she stared at Hermione and opened her mouth as if to say something, but then seemed to think better of it.

"They didn't even bother opening my letters," Hermione finally muttered.

"'They'?"

"Ron. Ezra." She was scandalised to feel tears once again welling in her eyes. She had been doing a  _ lot _ of crying this week. Not good. Next she would be dabbing runaway makeup and complaining about boys standing her up on dates.

"Who's Ezra?" Jane asked, apparently skipping the 'sympathy' phase and allowing her curiosity to take control of the conversation.

_ Oops _ . Hermione had been deliberately avoiding any mention of him. Things were complicated enough as it was, and besides, it was probably safer for everyone involved.

"Uhm... a friend from school," she said slowly. "I don't think you've met him."

"That's a rather strange name, isn't it?"

She stared dubiously at her mother. "Mum. You've met people named Dumbledore and McGonagall, and you think  _ Ezra _ is a weird name?"

Her mother blushed and started to wring her hands. "Sorry, dear... I was just... You know," she said after an awkward pause, "being cooped up in your room all day isn't healthy. Why don't you go out for a bit —get some sun?"

_ Get some sun _ , Hermione sarcastically repeated in her head. Surely this wasn't the same mother who had known her for eighteen years.

"Or maybe you can go to that new Beaker Museum that just opened?"

Hermione shook her head. "I can't. I still have a lot of work to do..."

"Oh, come on, Mia" —her nickname when she was younger—"you used to love going to museums as a little girl."

A brilliant blush suffused her face. "Mum, you make me out to be such a... swot!"

But she was. And she really did want to go to that museum.

Several hours later found Hermione in greatly raised spirits, exiting the Beaker Museum after a relaxing afternoon away from wizarding Britain and the troubles it carried with it. The exhibits showcased artefacts from the Beaker archaeological culture, including wooden tools, copper weapons, and a large variety of the culture's eponymous inverted bell beakers. She had also been mildly amused to come across a display showcasing what the curators thought was some sort of crude sceptre, but was instead almost certainly a primitive wizard's staff. She had not felt the need to correct them.

As she stepped from the cool air-conditioned building into the muggy outdoors, she heard someone calling behind her.

"Excuse me, ma'am!"

_ Oh, no. Not again. _

"Ma'am!"

She increased her pace and began to weave in and out of the crowd of Muggles, desperate to lose her pursuer.

A cold hand suddenly gripped her arm and she whirled about, wand already half-drawn. To her surprise and embarrassment, she now stood face-to-face with a museum security guard.

"You forgot your wallet," the older man —P. Moon, according to his name tag—said with a small smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

"Oh." She flushed. Then, she remembered her wand, and tried to discreetly lower it despite the security guard's curious gaze at the slim piece of wood. "Thanks... Sorry, I must not have heard you."

When Mr Moon went off to return to his station, she wiped the sweat from her brow. Maybe she was becoming a mite paranoid. Mad-Eye Moody would surely be appreciative; other people, not so much. Not to mention the toll it was taking on her own nerves.

As Hermione was strolling through the streets of Muggle London, a small book store just off of Northumberland caught her eye. With a hasty glance around her, she slipped into the shop. She was met with a quaint but cosy room, decorated with a few small, plush armchairs, and several stuffed bookcases adorning every wall. After exchanging a few pleasantries with the proprietor —a pleasant, elderly Scottish woman—Hermione began to peruse one of the nearby bookshelves labelled "Fantasy & Science Fiction". It had been a trying few weeks and she could do with a pick-me-up.

As she was reading the blurb for an odd-looking novel titled  _ Map of the Troposphere _ , a sudden, faint flicker of light caught her attention. She looked up toward the window facing the street, but saw nothing out of the ordinary outside. Deciding it was merely a figment of her overactive imagination, she shrugged and bent down to retrieve another book that was calling her name.

Then it happened again: the briefest glimmer of light that oh-so-slightly illuminated the surfaces of the book store. Hermione snapped upright so quickly that her lower back cracked, but she paid it no heed. She definitely wasn't imagining things —not twice in a row. A quick peek to the rear of the store seemed to indicate that the proprietor had not noticed anything awry.

The gaudy bells on the door jingled behind her as she fled the store, stumbling onto the street. Where were the lights coming from? Squinting her eyes against the bright outdoors, she surveyed the sky in an attempt to locate the source of the flashes.

Aha! There it was again —reflecting against some of the taller buildings down Great Scotland Yard. Strangely, no one nearby seemed to notice the flickering lights. Only her.

Against her better judgement, Hermione took off toward the source of the lights, curious as always to determine the cause of something unknown. As she tried her best to sprint down the street, she once again cursed her weak body and her penchant for physical inactivity. An agonising several minutes passed before she finally arrived at the end of the enclosed street, whereupon she bent over, resting her hands on her knees as she caught her breath. When the stars had receded from her vision, she looked up. It took her several seconds to understand the scene in front of her.

She blanched.

Not fifty metres from her was the back entrance to the alleyway that housed the Ministry's visitors' entrance. Crowded by the opening was a throng of wizards and witches, some twenty or thirty of them, dressed in all varieties of wizarding robes. Most wore adorned with brown sashes indicating they were Muggle-born, though there were a couple green ones thrown into the mix as well: half-bloods. Muggle-sympathisers.

Several of the crowd carried picket signs with various slogans scrawled on them. In contrast to the ones she'd seen on the telly as a child, most of the signs were charmed so their texts scrolled, danced, and swam, some flashing through different colours, others throbbing in size like an angry heartbeat.

_ "Rookwood? Crookwood!" _

_ "Blood Equality or No Equality!" _

_ "Umbridge to burn!" _

One witch was even using her wand to direct a vibrant marquee of text that appeared to be made of fireworks. The text  _ WE WILL NOT BE OPPRESSED! _ sailed in a circle above the crowd like one of those aerial banners dragged by an advertising aeroplane.

The impromptu protest stirred something uncomfortable in Hermione's chest. Six months ago she would have joined in earnest, eager to demonstrate her displeasure at a systematically unjust sequence of policies. Now, she knew that such a demonstration, particularly in a heavily-warded street directly above the heart of the Ministry of Magic, would lead to nothing but trouble.

Hermione instinctively drew her wand when another outburst of light emerged from the crowd and reflected off of the windows around her. Upon closer inspection, she discerned the cause: a protester had tossed a mild jinx at one of the Ministry Aurors standing guard over the entrance to the alleyway. The jinx had impacted against the Auror's shield, causing it to surge and emit a brilliant burst of white light.

The shields maintained by the two Aurors were not typical Shield Charms. Indeed, each Auror wielded a blunt staff that appeared to be just longer than Hermione was tall. Each staff was made from a dark wood, nearly black; and instead of being adorned with a magical focus, the head was carved into an elaborate tri-pronged spiral that extended from the shaft itself. The Aurors gripped the staffs with both hands, wielding them like battering rams, or perhaps spears. From the ornate crown of each staff emerged a brilliant red, rectangular forcefield that was nearly opaque; over a metre wide and twice that in height. A repeating string of glowing white symbols snaked their way around the outer edges of the shields.

Runes.

Hermione tried to translate the runes:  _ Stability _ .  _ Loyalty _ . Two runes she didn't recognise.  _ Barricade _ . And...

_ Power _ .

Power. No wonder those Legion Shields weren't cast with normal wands. The ancient rune for power,  _ Ersgath _ , unsurprisingly allowed a caster to focus a larger-than-usual amount of power into a spell, increasing its efficacy by several factors. However,  _ Ersgath _ was hardly ever integrated into magical spells because the sheer magnitude of the magic it focused could easily burn out a wand's core.

Perhaps now was not the time to rehearse a mental lecture on the pros and cons of Power runes. The flashes ahead were coming more frequently now. The protesters' morale was bolstered by the fact that they faced only two Aurors, neither of whom wanted, apparently, to take their chances against an irate crowd that outnumbered them ten-to-one. The spells weren't harmful, really; more of a nuisance than anything. A Stinging Jinx here, a Jelly-Legs there; mostly to annoy the Aurors.

Still, Hermione wasn't sure what to do. The altruistic part of her told her to run in and scatter the demonstration, to try her best to convince the wizards gathered that it wasn't safe out here. Her sense of self-preservation, on the other hand, screamed at her to vacate the premises at once. But Hermione, presented with two perhaps equally-viable options, did what any person in a similar situation would do: continue to stand there.

So that is what she did, until a mild shuffling of bodies in the crowd revealed two familiar faces.

"Cho?" she gasped more to herself than anything. And then... "Sally!"

The two girls turned in confusion, looking for the source of the shouts. Quickly enough, they found their target. Cho stood on her tiptoes and waved at her, and Sally-Anne yelled back something that wasn't quite understandable over the din of the crowd and the spells and the fireworks. Both girls wore grins on their faces, clearly pleased with themselves for partaking in their civil duty of inciting unrest against an army of two Aurors.

In lieu of trying to make herself understood over the bedlam, Hermione instead gestured wildly with both hands to the street behind her. Admittedly, the gestures made little sense even to her. When Sally-Anne fixed her with a blank stare that seemed to somehow combine confusion and concern, Hermione stamped back her frustration and anxiety and once again raised her voice:

"Get out of there!"

Did they really think the Ministry was above arresting the lot of them?

Sally-Anne and Cho exchanged a few words, after which Cho turned back toward the Aurors and Sally-Anne pushed her way to the edge of the crowd. "Come on!" the girl shouted, the words finally intelligible now that she wasn't buried in the throng of people. Several of the other crowd members turned and saw Hermione, nodding and making affirmative gestures, before turning back to launch a few fireworks toward the guards.

Hermione finally made a decision, stumbling a few steps before starting to run toward Sally-Anne. But before she could make it even halfway, a sudden, ear-splitting  _ CRACK _ filled the air as over a dozen Aurors simultaneously appeared in a circle around the protesters.

"Surrender your wands at once!" a magically-enhanced voice reverberated through the street. It was coming from one of the Aurors who had just Apparated in, a brawny man with a scruffy beard and coal-black eyes. Given the silver stars on his shoulders, and the purple sash draped across his waist instead of the customary white one, it appeared that he was in charge.

The crowd quieted somewhat, and a tall, bespectacled woman pushed her way to the front. "We won't be bullied into submission!" To emphasise her point, she took the sign from the man next to her and thrust it into the air, pumping her arm several times as if she were a flagbearer rallying her comrades. The crowd began to cheer and shout, invigorated by their leader.

The gathered Aurors shuffled and looked toward their own commander, obviously deferring to his lead.

"This demonstration is in violation of Edict 141 —not to mention your attempts to harm Ministry personnel—"

"Oh, please," the small woman shot back. "Don't bother with the rhetoric. We know our rights, and we refuse to be threatened by your empty threats."

"I'm warning you, this is your last chance to comply!"

Several of the crowd began to shrink back, eyes darting around to gauge the collective attitude of their peers. An attitude that had just started to waver —a minute fracture in its skeleton that, if not quickly controlled, would surely be disastrous.

The bespectacled woman turned, apparently having noticed the small shifts in stature of those around her. With a frown, the woman raised her other hand, this one holding her maple wand, and launched a small firework into the air. "Stand strong! The Aurors have no authority to dispute —"

" _ Put down your weapon! _ " the Auror shouted, clearly having lost what little temper he started with.

"Or what? Gonna throw us all in Azkaban? Your scare tactics won't work. In fact," she began to recite as if she'd rehearsed this countless times, "because we're within the confines of a Muggle-Repelling Charm, we're all within our legal rights to perform any Class D and Class E non-combative magic." A few scattered nods from the crowd punctuated her declaration, and she began to wave her wand in a figure-eight. "See?  _ Avis Ingress _ —"

" _ Avada Kedavra _ !"

The woman never had a chance to finish her incantation. Instead, she fell to the ground, wand still loosely gripped in her left hand.

A tense silence smothered the alley for just a moment before it was shattered by a piercing scream. This seemed to be the signal the other Aurors were waiting for, as they immediately jumped into action. Green blankets of light swathed the crowd, immediately dropping several more protesters to the ground, their eyes wide and faces frozen in unmitigated shock.

"Sally!" Hermione shrieked as the girl crumpled to the cobblestone, lifeless. 

Desperate screams rent through the air, and the crowd tried to disperse amidst a flurry of limbs and wands and shouts. 

"Arrest them all!" someone ordered.

Hermione's feet were glued to the ground. She couldn't move. Couldn't even lift her wand to help. Couldn't tear her eyes from the carnage.

Rainbows of light tore through the air as skirmishes erupted between the protesters and Aurors, who had switched from lethal spells to ones merely meant to incapacitate.

She watched as Cho valiantly shielded against three consecutive curses, but it was clear that the girl was no match for a trained Auror.

_ Please, Cho _ , Hermione begged wistfully in her head. But she knew it wouldn't help.

_ Just run away...  _ she pleaded. But she knew that wasn't a possibility.

A single, vivid tear seared her cheek as she watched, helpless.

Then the Auror finally overpowered Cho, knocking her down before flicking his wand to shackle her like the other unconscious protesters on the ground.

"CHO!" she screamed one final time, raw desperation spilling from her voice.

A mistake.

Two of the attacking Aurors immediately swung their heads around to the source of the sound. They wasted no time in casting a slurry of nasty-looking hexes at her. She jumped to the side, just barely avoiding them, and stumbled back and around the corner of a nearby building. She muttered a spell, but frowned when nothing happened. The streets near the visitors' entrance must have been riddled with the same suppression wards that covered Diagon Alley.

Hermione haphazardly raced down the street, doing whatever she could to avoid being hit by curses. Screams of passers-by rang in her ears as the pursuing Aurors indiscriminately flung lethal curses in her general direction.

Cars. Walls. People. To the Auror force, collateral damage was immaterial.

A crack of Apparition directly in front of her. No time to think —she ducked her head and slammed straight into the Auror. She was quite petite, but the momentum still lurched him back into a lamp post, knocking him out cold.

The remaining Auror ignored his fallen comrade, growling and throwing a nonverbal Flaying Hex her way. She reflexively cast a Shield Charm, feeling but a moment of relief when it burst into life before her. It absorbed the brunt of the spell, but not all of it. A small sliver of magic ripped through the barrier and tore off a strip of her skin from chin to clavicle.

Tears burned her eyes as she tried to block out the pain —tufts of wind billowing through the streets seared her exposed muscle tissue. Dispassionately, the Auror raised his wand again, but without even waiting to see what he would cast, Hermione Apparated away.

The Shrieking Shack. The very first place she had thought of. Its shoddy walls were bereft of —

_ CRACK! _

Before she could even think about it, Hermione spun around and shot off a Stunner which was laughably blocked by the Auror.

_ How did he follow me? _

"You're in violation of Ministry law," the Auror spoke for the first time —a deep but monotonous voice. "Compliance is requested."

"I'll tell you exactly what I think of your 'compliance,'" Hermione spat, steel in her eyes, but before she could finish her thought, the wizard brought his arm up in a sharp slashing motion. A powerful, invisible force shoved her back against the wall, knocking the breath from her lungs.

"Compliance is requested."

Hermione Granger found herself in a rather precarious situation: cornered in a deserted, isolated, beaten-down hovel and held at wandpoint by one of the Ministry's elite soldiers. But she hadn't been hired as the youngest Transfiguration professor in the history of Hogwarts because of her charming personality.

No, certainly not.

When the burly wizard launched a Reductor Curse at her, she deflected it upward into the ceiling, which shattered into a dozen large, rotted fragments of wood that she quickly transfigured into steel balls, each of which were easily twice her weight. The Auror swore and dived to the side to avoid most of the falling weights. The last one he caught with a swish and a flick, and he subsequently redirected it toward Hermione.

Hermione, for her part, banished the oncoming steel ball and blocked the gruesome purple curse that the man had tried to hide behind it. " _ Aguamenti _ ," she whispered, coating the ground around her attacker with water. " _ Glacius _ ."

The water froze, and she immediately transfigured the man's boots into ice skates.

The man, having apparently never ice-skated before, roared in fury when he tried to get up and instead found that his legs were simply not behaving according to the usual laws of physics. He took his anger out on the petite witch in the far corner of the room, launching a cluster of Blasting Curses that would have made even the savviest of duellists nervous.

Hermione barely blocked the first one, but had no choice other than dive out of the way of the other three. The last one screamed past her leg, so close that she could feel the sharp edge of magic rip across her skin. Unfortunately, she landed askew on her shoulder, and hissed in pain as she rolled her body another revolution to position herself behind the shabby old bed that had probably not been cleaned since before she had been born.

"You should have come quietly. That would have saved you a lot of... trouble," the Auror calmly said from across the room. Apparently, he had recovered from his skating misadventures. "Oh well."

Suddenly, the entire bed lit up in a sea of fire. Hermione gasped and tried to shuffle backward —but that wasn't really an option, as that would put her beyond the cover of the bed. She would be entirely exposed. She was already sweating—her face was already burning, she could feel it. The flames licked at her right shoe; she yanked it back. Looking up, she could see the decade-old particles of dust in the air, dancing in the light of the fire.

That gave her an idea.

With a groan, she pushed herself onto her side to free her arm, then waved her wand in a shaky circle above her. All of a sudden, the shack was filled to the brim with garish, brightly-coloured balloons of all sizes. From an observer's point of view it might have seemed that they were conjured, but they had in fact been transfigured from the small dust particles that had until now inhabited the room.

Hundreds of the balloons popped almost immediately due to the searing heat emanating from the burning bed, but that was fine —in fact, it was a pleasant surprise. The myriad explosions were loud, obnoxious, chaotic: especially for a pure-blood who had never been exposed to Muggle balloons. The Auror's short moment of panic was enough for Hermione to get to her feet and temporarily set her shoulder.

The Auror began erratically firing off spells in every direction, partly in anger and partly in an attempt to hit a target who was occluded by a sea of balloons. Upon realising how feeble the balloons were, he conjured a wave of metal jacks which tore through the remainder.

By this time, Hermione had already transfigured the remnants of a burning pillow into a thick sheet of aluminium, which acted as a pin cushion for the several dozen shards of metal that flew her way.

With a manic howl, the Auror cast a spell that ripped the sheet down the middle. As the pieces fell to the side, she heard the two words that would come to haunt her dreams in the weeks to come:

" _ Avada Kedavra _ !"

A sharp twirl of her wand caused the two sheets of metal to jump back together and morph into a stone statue of a mounted knight. The bright green light of the Killing Curse smashed into the statue, blowing shards of stone of all sizes into the air. With her utmost concentration, Hermione banished one of the shards toward the Auror, who had not been expecting this turn of events. The stone fragment impacted with the side of his forehead, and he crumpled to the ground.

Hermione collapsed to the floor, panting, not bothering to sweep the debris out from under her. She absently took in the carnage around her: the smoldering ruins of the bed; the sizable holes in the walls and ceiling; the steel balls half-buried into the floor. She had caused this.  _ He  _ had caused this.

She reached up to touch her cheek. It was wet. Bleeding. She was bleeding. Her shoulder started to ache again. The stinging of her neck and collarbone returned.

The Auror was dead. No, unconscious, thank God —she could see his chest rising and falling.

She needed to get out of there.

She needed to get home.

But she was so tired —she could just fall asleep right here.

No. Not yet.

With a pained groan, she pushed herself to her feet. The decrepit shack swayed in her vision; she leaned against the wall until it subsided. Closing her eyes, Hermione took a deep breath and focused.

_ Crack. _

She appeared behind Honeydukes.

_ Crack. _

King's Cross.

_ Crack. _

Privet Drive.

_ Crack. _

Here she was, her Tube station of choice. She certainly wouldn't risk Apparating any closer to home. After all, she still wasn't sure how the Auror had tracked her earlier Apparition to the Shrieking Shack. On her way here she had made several intermediate stops, but still, there was no point in risking it.

She ignored the stares of the people around her. Instead, she stared straight ahead, focusing on a dark spot on the faded wall across the tracks. Only when the train arrived did she move, stepping inside and then collapsing onto the nearest seat. Then, she finally began to sob.

#

_**Muggle-Borns Attack Aurors Unprovoked!** _

_ Yesterday afternoon, a crowd of wizards and witches, largely Muggle-born, instigated a violent attack against the Ministry of Magic itself. Veteran Aurors Callum Greengrass and Kiera Bray were the first to arrive on the scene, and they heroically withstood the onslaught for nearly twenty minutes before the DMLE could muster reinforcements. Both Auror Greengrass and Auror Bray will receive a Silver Wand of Valour for their service to protect the Ministry and its citizens. _

_ The motivations behind this unprecedented attack are still unclear. Some sources believe the Muggle-borns and Muggle-sympathisers are simply lashing out due to a feeling of helplessness in the face of the dangers they face in the everyday world. When asked for his professional opinion in the matter, Director Augustus Rookwood, Head of the DMLE, expressed uncertainty but also shared encouraging words: "It really is hard to say. We at the Ministry are doing our best to keep them safe and involved in our community, but if this kind of behaviour continues, we will be forced to do what we must to keep our society safe." _

_ The involved assailants have been apprehended and secured, and the DMLE is working round the clock to determine how best to proceed in this matter. _

Sprawled across the top half of the page was a photograph of one of the Muggle-born witches who had been at the front of the protest. The magical photo played on repeat; it showed the end of an incantation and a vivid red spell that consequently emerged from the witch's wand. The spell sailed through the air, and when it collided with Bray's Legion Shield, the whole image flashed white, and the loop reset.

Hermione choked back a scream and instead flung the  _ Prophet _ against the far wall, whereupon it shattered into a thousand pieces as if it were made of porcelain. Oh, how she wished she could meet with the author of that horrid article. There would be some  _ lashing out _ , alright. She almost missed the days when Rita Skeeter had been writing for the newspaper. At least back then, Hermione had known what she was up against.

And that utterly ridiculous photograph. That was a Tickling Charm, for God's sake. Any person with two brain cells could see that —not to mention the incantation was quite obvious. Who was she kidding? The Ministry owned the  _ Prophet _ , and they certainly weren't interested in truth.  _ News _ , barely. But  _ truth _ ? Not a chance. Not when the Ministry did their utmost to silence it. In some cases, literally, as evidenced by their viciously bellicose response to yesterday's protest.

She pulled her knees up to her chest and let her head fall to her knees, just as she let the tears fall from her eyes.

Until now, she had avoided thinking too hard about yesterday's events. Stuffed them behind a dam that she knew wouldn't hold up against such a torrent of emotions. Now the dam cracked, buckled, broke; sending a deluge of vivid images and torrid emotions cascading over her. Leaving her sodden with the memories of yesterday.

_ "Avada Kedavra!" _

She could clearly envision Sally-Anne, expression filled with surprise, toppling to the ground, on repeat as if the girl herself was in a wizarding photograph. Again and again, each time the same but somehow worse, as if Sally-Anne knew what to expect but still couldn't do anything about it.

And Cho —standing her ground against a seasoned Auror, even when it was clear to both who would emerge victorious. Eventually she would succumb to a Stunner, which, at the hands of the Minstry, was no less disastrous than a Killing Curse.

Now both of them were gone. Sally-Anne, dead. Cho, possibly worse: incapacitated and incarcerated. Hermione shuddered to think of what awaited her in the musty cells deep in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic.

Hermione frantically gripped at her hair and rocked side-to-side, all the while wanting to scream out in pain, anger, frustration.

She didn't know why she was so torn up over Cho. It wasn't like the two of them had ever gotten along. 

Who was she kidding? She knew who was to blame.  _ She _ had criticised Sally-Anne and Cho for hiding from their troubles.  _ She _ had convinced them to take an active role against their Ministry.

So they had.

And look where it got them.

Was she next?

No... Even if she were, she wouldn't be cowed into submission. She had always prided herself on doing what she thought was right, no matter the consequences. This was no different.

Hermione Granger took a long, deep breath to try to clear her head. It worked, at least a little bit. What she needed to do now was tell others what she had seen. Spread the word that the Muggle-borns weren't to be blamed for this: that the Ministry had been the true instigators of violence at yesterday's protest.

Then came the critical question: How? How could a fugitive Muggle-born witch quickly disseminate  _ anything _ ? She briefly entertained the ludicrous idea of writing an op-ed piece to the  _ Prophet _ , but then immediately dismissed the notion as absurd. 

As her eyes roved over the waste bin across from her, Hermione saw something that answered the question for her. Why hadn't she thought of it earlier? It was perfect.

But first, there was one order of business to attend to. Hermione pushed herself shakily to her feet, opened her closet, and began to rummage through the large box in the back corner.

#

Saturday morning dawned dark and rainy in a way that might make one question whether it was really dawn. Hermione was already up and about, putting the finishing touches on her project. When she was finished, she folded it and carefully placed it into her bag.

With a practised hand, she pulled her hair into a ponytail. Then, she patted her pocket to make sure the fake Galleon was there. Satisfied, she took one last look around the room before Apparating away.

Hermione blinked into existence in a grungy alley behind a Muggle diner. A few rats that had been hiding under a cardboard box scattered. Pea-sized droplets of rain were already falling, and Hermione was already wishing she had thought to bring a coat. She quickly walked to the end of the alley and turned the corner, entering the diner via the side door.

Hermione quickly surveyed the restaurant's scattered occupants: there, in the corner booth, was her quarry.

"Hello, Hermione," the other girl said in greeting as she sat down.

"Luna," Hermione couldn't help but smile, "it's so nice to see you." The Ravenclaw had always been considered a bit "odd" by her classmates, but she had never been anything but supportive of Harry in their later years at Hogwarts, and because of that, she and Hermione had eventually struck up an odd sort of friendship.

"That's kind of you to say," responded Luna airily, as if Hermione had just complimented her haircut. Luna stared at her with large, unblinking eyes, and an awkward silence ensued. Awkward for Hermione, at least, who wasn't sure how to respond to the platitude.

As she fought for something to say, she took the moment to take in Luna's appearance. Unsurprisingly, she was wearing wizarding robes, but unlike normal robes, these had small, multicoloured flowers embossed on them with various animated creatures dancing around them. Her sash was white, indicating her pure-blood ancestry, but it was also decorated by some thirty or forty vibrantly-coloured buttons sewn into it in various patterns. Several of the diners were throwing confused looks her way, but the girl seemed to be immune to them.

Interestingly, Luna's hair had become even paler since last year, and by now it almost matched the shade of her sash (sans buttons). It was at this moment that Hermione realised just how similar Luna's hair was to Ezra's, both in colour and affect. The resemblance was uncanny.

Finally the silence was broken, and Hermione heaved an internal sigh of relief when Luna spoke once again.

"So where are the others?"

"Pardon?" asked Hermione, blinking.

"The DA, of course," she said with the slightest hint of a frown. "I was looking forward to having peers again."

"Oh." Hermione had used the master Galleon from the DA to send Luna a meeting time and location. In hindsight, she supposed it was understandable for the girl to be a bit confused. "I'm sorry Luna, I didn't mean to mislead you. It's just the two of us today."

"That is disappointing. I always learn so much from Harry."

Hermione's face froze at the mention of her best friend, and to her credit, Luna noticed the change in demeanour. 

"Oh! I'm sorry, I..."

"Don't worry about it," Hermione interjected, but she couldn't meet her gaze.

She had not wanted to talk about, much less think about, Harry Potter at this rendezvous. She was on a mission this morning and she needn't be distracted. Harry would have certainly told her off for it, had he been here —after all, focus was the most important virtue of any battle. Heck, even Ezra would have chastised her the same.  He and Harry shared more traits than either would care to admit.

More likely, one had rubbed off on the other in the several months that they had been acquaintances. Again, not that either would admit it.

She only wished she knew where Ezra was at the moment. In all honesty, she could have really used his help.

"How is he?" Luna asked quietly. The blond had been watching the cogs turning in Hermione's head, and seemed to have accurately surmised the direction of Hermione's thoughts. Odd or not, she wasn't a Ravenclaw for nothing.

Hermione gave her a strangled look, and then relented with a deep sigh. "I don't know. I haven't heard from him since Hogwarts, and..." she trailed off. After a minute, she decided it was time to get back on track. "Anyway, if you don't mind, the reason I wanted to meet..."

"You want me to publish something in  _ The Quibbler _ , don't you?"

Hermione bit back a huff of exasperation. She was used to finishing other people's thoughts —not the other way around. Was this how people felt around her all the time?

"You seem agitated, Hermione. Are you okay?" Luna ruffled through her bag and pulled out a pair of blue spectacles, donning them and intently staring through them at Hermione. "Hmm," she eventually said, shaking her head and stowing the spectacles once more.

"It's just been a long week, that's all." She shut her eyes and rubbed her temples in an attempt to soothe her mood. It wasn't really Luna's fault, so she felt bad that her mild ire was directed toward her. Eventually she reopened her eyes and pulled out Wednesday's issue of the  _ Prophet _ and slid it across the table.

"I assume you saw this?"

Luna's expression lost all signs of its former dreaminess, and instead her eyes turned hard. She nodded. "It doesn't make any sense. Daddy doesn't like it either."

Vehemently shaking her head, Hermione leaned in and lowered her voice. "It wasn't an attack. It was a protest —I was there. I'm not surprised the  _ Prophet _ would twist it to meet the Ministry's agenda; but I am surprised that they would outright lie for it."

At this, Luna furrowed her brow, grabbing the newspaper and taking a closer look at the photograph on the front page. "Nothing is as it seems..." she whispered.

"Hmm?"

But the girl didn't answer.

When it became clear that Luna wasn't going to reignite the conversation, Hermione pulled out a sealed envelope and put it on the table next to the newspaper. "Luna, I want you to ask your father to publish this piece in  _ The Quibbler _ refuting the  _ Prophet _ 's article. Can you do that?"

The blond lifted her gaze and stared vacantly through her before slowly shaking her head with a faint smile. "There's no need. Daddy's letting me run the presses this summer. He's quite ill, actually; he's having fits, dizzy spells..."

"That's terrible! I'm so sorry —do you know when he'll recover?" asked Hermione.

"Why are you sorry? Did  _ you _ expose him to Snorkack Influenza?" Luna asked, fixing Hermione with a serious stare which led her to believe that it really wasn't a rhetorical question.

"Uh... no."

"Well, Daddy thinks it's Snorkack Influenza, but I think that's silly," she continued, apparently satisfied that Hermione had not taken part in her father's infection. "Crumple-Horned Snorkacks don't even have immune systems. It seems much more likely to me to be a strain of bacterial pneumonia. Or maybe Heliopath-transduced Hemolysis," she added as a desultory afterthought.

"...okay. I see."

"I don't think you do, but you're just too polite to say otherwise," said Luna with an unreadable smile.

"That reminds me!" Hermione said, not actually having been reminded of anything, but instead looking for a way to mask her discomfort. "I have something for you."

After glancing around to make sure no one was paying her too much attention, she opened her bag and carefully pulled out a knitted scarf that was striped blue and bronze. On one end of the scarf, about the size of a fist, was the shape of a brown eagle spreading its wings: the crest of Ravenclaw. Running down the length of the scarf was a sequence of finely woven symbols, each not much bigger than a Sickle. To the casual bystander, the symbols appeared to be a dull grey, recessed lifelessly in the fabric of the scarf; the more attentive observer would note that they gradually fluctuated amongst different shades of silvers and greys, pulsing and thrumming with magic.

"It's so... exquisite," Luna breathed, taking the proffered scarf and holding it gingerly in her hands. "Oh! These are runes!" Her eyes roved down the scarf as she attempted to translate the text. " _ Drasvaegr... Raemda sowilo oft enk-mora... _ "

Luna stopped reading and flicked her eyes upward. "These are transcription runes."

Hermione nodded. "Communication, to be more precise. It'll allow us to pass messages back and forth more easily. The DA Galleons work in a pinch, but who knows how much Umbridge —the Ministry—knows about them. And, the messages are encoded within the runes, so most others won't be able to read them. Sorry that it had to be a scarf, but my hats are absolute rubbish and anything else is too big," she added with a grimace.

"No —it's beautiful. You're very thoughtful, Hermione."

And she could swear the Ravenclaw had a bit of mist in her eyes.

When the girls rose from their seats, Hermione couldn't help but stare as Luna donned first a light jacket, then a thick coat, and finally her newly-acquired scarf.

"Do I have something on my face?" Luna asked when she noticed the attention she was receiving. She reached up and poked at her face, appearing disgruntled when she found nothing out of the ordinary there.

"No... Where are you going?" she asked with slight envy, though not entirely sure if she wanted to know the answer. It was, after all, far too hot and muggy to be legal right now.

"Back to the presses, of course," responded Luna in a voice that had once again regained its patented airiness.

She resisted the urge to scowl. "Yes, but where are they?" To emphasise her point, she gestured meaningfully at Luna's full winter garb.

"Oh. I'm not really sure. They always seem to move around; I can barely keep up."

"Right... of course." She could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. Not an unusual phenomenon after conversing with Luna. "Well, thanks for doing this. I really appreciate it."

"My pleasure; anything for you. Well, not anything. That's just a figure of speech that others seem to use. But I'm happy to do it —no matter who it's for. Daddy would approve."

Together, the two witches left the diner and turned into the alley.

"And Hermione," Luna turned to say just as she was about to Apparate away. "I hope you find him."

#

"Can you explain to me what a Crumple-Horned Snorkack is?"

"Pardon?"

"A Crumple-Horned Snorkack: what is it?" the Unspeakable repeated in a tone that made it difficult to determine how serious he was.

"I don't rightly know. I've never seen one. I'm not sure if anyone has," Indigo said with a noncommittal shrug.

One of the Praesix guards twitched as if hoping that the feeble prisoner's shrug could be interpreted as an act of aggression.

"So perhaps Miss Lovegood was a bit... barmy?"

Indigo scowled. "Just because someone believes in something different doesn't make them  _ barmy _ . Luna believed in a lot of things that others didn't. Her peers constantly castigated her for her beliefs, but in spite of that, she never changed. Persistence in the face of criticism. That, Unspeakable, is a courageous and commendable trait to have."

The Unspeakable, for his part, delicately laid his quill on the table and then leaned back in his chair, appraising Indigo 9733. At long last, he spoke. "Are there things you believe that others do not?"

"Of course. Everyone has something. Even you, surely, much as your Ministry would like to think otherwise."

"Not so, prisoner. I assure you that all of my precepts are aligned with the Ministry's guidelines, as laid out by Minister Lestrange himself," he responded in a monotone. "As the Unspeakable Magus, I am always in compliance with the law."

"Well, I'm certain you've convinced at least one of us," Indigo said flatly.


	8. Aquila

_ Shouts of panic and frenzy rattled the earth. Outlandish flashes of light ignited the sky. Wild cheers and feral jeers assaulted the heavens. _

_ A writhing, unrelenting crowd of people _ _ —there, far below, on the ground. Ebbing, flowing, fighting. They were the cause of all of the commotion. Bodies fell left and right. It was chaos. _

_ Fear gripped at her, and then _ _ —anger. How dare they? She must intervene. There must be order. _

_ Without a second thought, she was suddenly there, on the ground. The crowd momentarily quieted and quickly parted around her, but they still held their wands. _

_ They were dangerous. _

_ "Surrender your wands at once!" she shouted, voice echoing all around. _

_ For the longest time, there was no movement. But then a small, blond girl pushed her way forward. _

_ "Sally-Anne." The name slipped off her tongue. Who was Sally-Anne? _

_ "I'm here," the blond girl said. "Just like you asked." _

_ "Shut up, half-blood!" she heard herself yell. "Surrender your wand." _

_ "Isn't this what you wanted? To offer myself up to the Aurors like a fool? A sacrificial lamb for your untenable cause." _

_ " _ Avada Kedavra _!" _

_ Just like that, the girl ostensibly named Sally-Anne dropped to the ground. _

_ "You killed her..." said a second voice, quite calmly. _

_ She turned around to find the source. There she was. Cho Chang. _

_ "...just like you killed me," she continued. Her voice was flat. Emotionless. Lifeless. _

_ "No... what...? No, I didn't!" She struggled to speak; struggled to think. "You're not dead...!" _

_ "Of course you did. Of course I am." _

_ Cho smirked and sent a nameless hex which she blocked. Then two more, which were deftly reflected. Soon, a vicious duel emerged. _

_ At every blocked spell, every dodged curse, the anger in her heart grew. What did this bitch think she was doing? Who did she think she was? _

_ Cho laughed, sending twin jets of fire toward her which were swiftly extinguished. _

_ Finally, she snapped. " _ Avada Kedavra _!" she shouted once again. _

_ "See?" Cho said with a smile, face illuminated a sickly green by the impossibly slow bath of light that approached. "You killed her. Just like you killed me." _

Hermione's eyes shot open and she gasped for breath as if she had just been submerged in a body of water. Beads of sweat clung to her forehead and neck, much as her drenched pyjamas clung oppressively to her body.

For nearly every night since the protest, she had been having the same nightmare, in one form or other. The start of the dream often varied, but it always ended the same: with her killing Sally-Anne and then Cho. More accurately, it always ended just before she killed Cho. But it was hardly worth arguing details with her subconscious.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment and then sighed, turning her attention to the window. The first tendrils of sunlight were peaking through the curtains, and she had too many things to do to be lying in bed all morning. Slowly, she shifted and half-rolled, half-fell out of her bed. 

With a depressingly familiar wave of her wand, Hermione dried and cleaned the sheets as well as her pyjamas. Even then, she still felt gross. A Cleaning Charm was no substitute for a real wash —or a shower. So she gathered a change of clothes and padded down the hallway.

After stripping out of her clothes, she caught her gaze in the mirror and couldn't help but stare despondently back at the reflected version of herself. She had never had perfect skin, but that wasn't her main point of focus at the moment. Her body was currently riddled with evidence of her various encounters over the past weeks.

A small but very noticeable strip of flesh from her chin down to her collarbone had poorly healed after being hit by the tail end of a Flaying Hex at the protest. It was a raw, vivid red; her attempts to heal it had not been as successful as she would have liked, but she knew the swelling would go down eventually. Her left shoulder was still a bit sore from having landed on it awkwardly in the Shrieking Shack; thankfully there was no lasting injury. Reflexively, she rolled it a few times to work off the imaginary kinks. Last and most evident was a thick, jagged scar that ran from her navel past her hip and down the outside of her right leg —a Cutting Curse courtesy of the Auror who had accosted her just outside of Gringotts. Again, her attempts to heal it had been only moderately fruitful, but she knew that going to St Mungo's would be suicidal, and she hadn't wanted Madam Pomfrey to think her so vain that she would go all the way to Hogwarts solely for treatment of a cosmetic injury. 

Injuries aside, Hermione couldn't help but stare critically at herself. Her hair was bushy as ever —an untamed mass of nominally wavy locks only exacerbated by poor sleep habits. Surprisingly, it had actually tamed slightly over the past few years. Slightly, like how she had become "slightly" more outgoing in her time at Hogwarts. Technically true, but hardly enough to matter.

She frowned and poked at her stomach. Certainly she did not used to be this... fleshy. Right? She vowed to herself that she would start exercising more, and then summarily scoffed. That was a promise she had been repeatedly making for quite awhile, to no avail.

_ What am I doing? _ she suddenly asked herself. With everything going on in the world, she didn't have time to worry about such shallow things as skin quality and body fat. That was for a certain type of a girl —a type of girl that she definitely was not. At the very least, it could wait.

After a long and refreshing shower, Hermione quickly dressed and donned a pair of her nicest robes. Given the summer heat today, she would have preferred Muggle clothes, but today's destination was Hogwarts, and it was only appropriate that she wore robes.

A resounding  _ CRACK _ signalled her arrival to the edge of Hogsmeade, and she started the long walk up the path toward Hogwarts. It was still relatively early in the morning, so not many people were milling about, but she still felt more exposed than she would like.

Eventually, she reached the main gate to the school. As expected, it was locked. She pulled out her wand and closed her eyes, recalling the incantation that had been written in the letter she had received yesterday.

_ "Aditas Concedastra, Auctoritatem Praeceptas. _ "

Then she tapped the rusted iron padlock on the gate, but nothing happened. Hermione frowned. She was sure she had recited the incantation properly. The sun was rising; she didn't want to be stuck out here much longer. Not with the frequent Auror patrols that had been established last week.

Suddenly, the bars of the gate began to hum and glow a dull blue. Then, the effect spread out, racing along the stones and foliage marking the edge of the grounds, extending as far as the eye could see as it reached around and behind the castle. Once the school's perimeter was completely saturated with the mystical blue light, it flickered through a rainbow of colours before settling on a dazzling white. Finally, just as Hermione thought she would go blind from its sheer radiance, the light dimmed and then was extinguished entirely with nary a sound. 

The large padlock clicked open, and the great iron chain securing the gate slowly snaked through the bars until it was free. With a muffled groan, the wings of the gate creaked open, welcoming her.

She had been keyed in to the Hogwarts grounds.

As soon as she stepped onto the grounds of the school, the gate began to swing shut behind her. Immediately she felt at home —safe. Even though she was nearly running late to being ten minutes early to her appointed meeting, Hermione decided that a more leisurely walk up to the castle was warranted. The heat was still unbearable, but never before had she felt so excited to be back at Hogwarts: and this time, as a professor.

Eventually, she found herself in front of the gargoyle that guarded the headmaster's —no, the headmistress' office. Professor Dumbledore had announced his retirement at the end of last year, and Professor McGonagall would be taking over his position.

The gargoyle turned its beady eyes to her and blinked, as if mocking her for not knowing the password. Now she knew how Harry must have always felt when Professor Dumbledore summoned him to his office. 

She huffed. "Oh, for heaven's sake, I'm a professor now. Would you just open already?"

To her moderate surprise, the gargoyle obliged.

Hermione stepped onto the moving staircase and waited impatiently as it spiralled to the top. Then, she took a deep breath and knocked.

"Come in!"

When she swung the door open, she was momentarily taken aback by what she saw. Though she had only been in this office once, she still remembered how it had been arranged and decorated. What currently surprised her was that not much had changed since she had last been here. She'd assumed that Professor McGonagall would have changed the office to better suit her more spartan personality —removing the endless assortment of gadgets and trinkets that even Hermione knew had more  aesthetic appeal than actual utility; replacing the commodious plush sofas with something a bit less ostentatious; and so on. But the only visible differences she noticed were the absence of Fawkes' perch and the presence of a well-worn sisal scratching post that she chalked up to the new headmistress' penchant for wandering the halls of Hogwarts as a tabby cat.

"Miss Gra —pardon me, Professor Granger," the older witch said with a faint smile as she rose from her seat. "What a privilege it is for me to be able to finally say that. The youngest professor in the history of Hogwarts! Though who would have ever presumed anything but?" she added as she appraised her favourite graduate  (not that she would ever admit that out loud).

"Thank you, Headmistress," Hermione said with an irrepressible smile, pleased as ever to see her favourite teacher (not that she would ever admit that out loud). "It's nice to be back."

Her eyes suddenly slid up past McGonagall and fixated on the curved stone wall behind her that was traditionally filled with the portraits of past headmasters, with rows and rows of frames that grew steadily darker and more rustic as they climbed up the wall that arched inward and upward toward the ceiling. What had caught her attention was the newest addition to the bunch: a golden, rather elegant frame that hung a scant metre above eye level. The sole occupant of the painting was none other than Albus Dumbledore. Unmoving, unspeaking; but it was unmistakably him.

The headmistress noticed her gaze and cleared her throat. "Don't worry: he's still alive and kicking" —neither witch chose to point out that given the state of his leg, he probably wouldn't be doing much kicking ever again—"but tradition dictates that every former headmaster have a place on this wall, even if they haven't yet passed." 

McGonagall turned once more toward Hermione and gestured to one of the velvet-covered chairs in front of the desk, before herself taking a seat.

"Tradition has a lot to say about Hogwarts, whether we like it or not. I'm still not sure I'm comfortable taking over Albus' office, but he insists that it's the rightful place for the head of the school. He still hasn't come by to pack up his...", she gestured exasperatedly at the baubles and trinkets around her, "...knick-knacks. I'm sure he and Aberforth are just laughing it up at the Hog's Head."

Hermione nodded silently, unsure of what to say but not willing to interrupt the woman.

"Ah! Here I am, blabbering on like a midwife. The idle thoughts of an old woman."

_ You're not old... _ Hermione almost responded, but the false platitude died on her lips. Instead: "It's really alright, Professor. I don't mind."

"Minerva, if you please. The staff are all on a first-name basis —I don't see why this should be any different," she said with a small smile that belied her stern gaze. "I hope you don't mind if I call you Hermione?"

Hermione shook her head.

"Splendid. Now, as I mentioned in my letter, today is mostly informational. We'll cover responsibilities of a professor, a rough Transfiguration curriculum" —at this, Hermione perked up—"living quarters, and a few other logistics. How have your preparations fared?"

"Adequately, I think. Though, to be honest, I hadn't really started until this week... Other things going on, you see."

At this, McGonagall quirked an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"Anyway, it's fine. It was quite difficult getting all of my teaching supplies. Diagon Alley these days... Even Hogsmeade..." She scowled and glared at her employer, though the glare wasn't really directed at her. "Ever since the protest and that horrid  _ Prophet  _ article."

"Yes. I saw  _ The Quibbler _ ."

Hermione's eyes widened, and her breath hitched.

"I saw your article, Miss Granger —Hermione. That was... a courageous thing to do. I suppose that is what's been keeping you 'occupied' this summer?"

After a moment's consideration, she slowly, jerkily, nodded. "Something like that."

"Cornelius. Augustus. Those men are not accustomed to being slighted," Minerva whispered with no reproach in her voice, just pure objectivity. "You know they'll see this as sedition. You know they'll be after you."

"More than they were already?" Hermione snorted. "I'm pretty sure I've been number one on their most-wanted list since..." She trailed off, missing the sympathetic glance that Minerva sent her. After several long seconds of staring at her palms in her lap, she looked back up. "It's just ridiculous. How can people be so ignorant?"

She leapt to her feet and began to pace on her side of the desk. "People will just believe whatever they're told. The  _ Prophet _ 's got the entirety of wizarding Britain thinking that us despicable Muggle-borns are unhinged, ungrateful, violent fanatics! I can't even go on the streets without half the people ushering their kids away, and the other half threatening me! Not to mention the asinine curfew, those absurd sashes, and Umbridge's idiotic edicts.

"I mean... how am I meant to teach here if half the students don't even respect me?!" Heaving a strangled combination of a laugh and a sob, she collapsed back onto the chair. "I just... I don't know. I just wish he were here... he would know what to do...." she whispered more to herself than anything.

At this point, the headmistress was fixing her with a marked stare that made her distinctly uncomfortable. A stare that told her the woman probably knew more than she was letting on.

A thick silence ensued, until finally Minerva spoke.

"If you don't mind my asking, how is Mr Weasley?"

Hermione just groaned and buried her head in her hands. Never would she have imagined breaking down like this in front of her professor, much less her boss. But the line had already been crossed. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"I don't know," she mumbled, her voice muffled behind her fingers. "He's refused to talk to me since the funeral. And I don't know where Ezra is. Maybe he's not talking to me too, I don't know..."

"Mr Rowe? I did notice that the two of you became quite amiable study partners last year. That was kind of you to take him in, so to speak."

Hermione's annoyance spilt over in the form of a glare directed at Minerva, who ignored it and continued anyway.

"I don't mean to be presumptuous, but I have found that sending a candid letter can often be the first step to healing a broken relationship."

She huffed but couldn't conjure up the energy needed to continue being annoyed at the headmistress. Instead, she just sighed and nodded.

"Very well. Shall we get to business, then?"

"Please."

Minerva plucked a large book from the corner of the desk and placed it in front of Hermione. "This is the curriculum I wrote for my class. I've been using it for the past decade, at least. I know you've already started working on the first years, but I'm sure you'll still find this helpful as you plan for the school year. You're free to use as much of it as you'd like, or bin the thing and start from scratch. It's probably due for an update, anyway."

Hermione carefully took the proffered binder and placed it on her lap, rotating it so it was facing her. It was staggeringly heavy, something that she should have expected given its owner's fastidious and methodical approach to teaching. Likely, every single day of a student's seven years of Transfiguration was planned to a T, from transfiguring a match into a needle all the way to advanced transmutation.

Reverently, she pulled open the cover and flipped through the first several pieces of parchment, all of which were bound to the spine by Stitching Charms. She was not too surprised to find that there were many similarities between McGonagall's curriculum and the beginnings of her own —though there were several divergences as well.

When she felt the headmistress' eyes on her, she looked up and blushed.

McGonagall just smiled. "I'm certain you'll make good use of it. Now, the timetables aren't written up yet —Filius is currently visiting some family in Ethiopia—but he'll have them ready by the end of the month. I don't foresee any surprises: usually the only changes year-to-year are due to fluctuations in N.E.W.T. enrolments."

"On the topic of scheduling..." Hermione started, feeling rather silly. "How do you manage to teach so many classes? I mean, logically, with seven years' worth of students, and two houses per class... even with only three classes per week, that's still... eight classes per day?" In third year, Hermione herself had used a Time-Turner to be able to take twelve classes, but she was marginally certain that the staff didn't need to take such drastic measures.

"An astute question, as always. The answer is one of Hogwarts' best-kept secrets..."

Hermione leaned in, momentarily forgetting even the heavy curriculum that was currently occupying her entire lap.

Minerva fixed Hermione with a meaningful gaze and lowered her voice a notch: "Excellent time management."

#

"As a professor, you are, of course, permitted —and expected—to reward house points for good conduct, and deduct them for disruptive or inappropriate behaviour. Or, in more extreme cases, assign detention," explained Minerva as they walked down the pristine stone corridor. "You're familiar with most of this already, having been Head Girl. Of course, now, you will also be expected to supervise detentions."

Hermione nodded eagerly, having read the staff manual already.

As they continued walking through the halls of Hogwarts, Headmistress McGonagall expounded the details of several sections of the manual, clarifying various logistic and administrative issues, some of which she found quite interesting, others not so much. Hermione wasn't yet sure where they were headed. Minerva had not volunteered that information, and Hermione hadn't asked as much.

When they passed by the entrance to the Great Hall, Hermione turned to stare at the four hourglasses that typically represented the current standings for house points. All four were empty, void of the usual colourful gems that elicited so much contention among the houses. Even the upper bulbs, which usually contained stockpiles of unallocated points, were barren.

"I suppose the concept of house points doesn't exist during the summer," she mused. "So the magic of Hogwarts has no choice but to remove the gems entirely."

"Correct and concise, as always," Minerva quipped, the corners of her mouth rising just slightly.

"Professor —umm, Minerva," Hermione said awkwardly as they once more resumed their walk. " _ Hogwarts: A History _ states that the Head of School is not allowed to be a Head of House. Who will be taking over for Gryffindor?"

"That would be Aurora —Professor Sinistra. She was a Gryffindor; she's agreed to be Head of Gryffindor for this year, but we both know how hard it is on an Astronomy teacher, as a lot of her schedule revolves around late-night classes. I hope you don't feel snubbed, Hermione: I have no doubt you'll be an incredible Transfiguration professor, but if I'm honest, I wasn't sure I felt comfortable putting someone so young as a Head of House. But don't fret; there's a time for everything."

"Don't worry, Minerva... I don't think I'd be ready for it either."

They walked in a comfortable silence for a minute before Minerva slowed to a halt in front of the hospital wing. "Would you look at that; it seems Poppy's in. Why don't we check in on her?"

The doors had hardly swung shut behind them when they heard a rapid shuffling of footsteps coming from the back of the wing. A moment later, Madam Pomfrey scurried into view.

"Minerva, what brings you to this neck of the castle? Ah, Miss Granger!"

"That's Professor Granger, now," Minerva corrected, not unkindly.

"My, that's right! Professor Granger. Fantastic. How's your visit so far?"

Hermione was momentarily baffled by the matron's good mood. Usually she was much more... businesslike. Laconic. Maybe it was because she currently had no patients to absorb her time and energy, or perhaps it was just lonely at this time of the year.

She finally found her voice. "Quite well, thank you. The headmistress has just been showing me around and explaining my duties as a teacher."

"Humble to a flaw. She knows most of it already," said Minerva.

"Oh, what's this?" Madam Pomfrey suddenly said with a hint of a frown. She quickly approached Hermione and stared at the girl's neck before gingerly poking at it with her wand. "This... this is the result of a Searing Charm? Or perhaps a Flaying Hex," she muttered to herself.

"It's —fine, Madam Pomfrey," Hermione snipped a bit more harshly than she'd intended, pushing away the tip of her wand.

"I don't think so. It looks like someone tried to heal the skin... rather unsuccessfully. It's no wonder it scarred like it did."

"Really, it's —"

"I will hear no argument. Grab a bed, Miss Granger."

And she felt like a first year, all over again.

Once Madam Pomfrey had shooed Minerva out of the hospital wing, she came to Hermione's bedside and leaned over her, investigating her neck more closely this time.

"...it was a Flaying Hex," Hermione finally whispered —not so much out of reverence for the moment, but instead because her head was cocked upward making it difficult to speak.

"Hmm," was the matron's response. "Yes, I see it now. And what poor slob of a mediwizard tried to fix this up?"

"That would be me..." she said with no small amount of embarrassment. "Gailson's Tegmentum Charm."

"Ah, I see. Inspired idea," Pomfrey said after a moment. "Unfortunately, Gailson's requires that the skin still be intact, or at least present, and well-preserved. Typically, a Flaying Hex shreds the skin so badly that it can't be reattached anyway. Here, you see the result —rough welts and a fair amount of scar tissue. Stay right there."

Madam Pomfrey retreated to the storeroom at the back of the wing, and Hermione heard her rummaging around in one of the cabinets. Eventually, she returned with a small, ceramic jar. Unscrewing the lid, she dipped her hand in it and began to dab some of the yellow cream onto Hermione's neck and collarbone.

"This should do the trick, I think. Apply this twice a day for the next, hmm... two weeks should do it. The salve forces skin regeneration, but will probably make the affected region quite itchy and rather tender. It beats the alternative, I'm sure you'd agree."

Hermione took the proffered jar with a muttered thanks.

"Now, is there anything else I should know about?"

Two minutes later found Hermione in roughly the same position, lying flat on her back on the definitionally uncomfortable hospital cot. This time, however, she was missing her robes and her jeans were pulled down to her knees. She would never have considered herself a prude, but she certainly was not comfortable in this situation, even if the school mediwitch was a trained professional.

"What in heaven's name have you been getting yourself into?" asked Pomfrey with no small disapproval tinging her voice as she traced her finger along the scar adorning her thigh. "It's no wonder you got along so well with Potter and Weasley..."

Hermione, for her part, stayed silent. In her years at Hogwarts, with Harry and Ron finding themselves residents of the hospital wing more times than she could count, she had come to learn that Pomfrey's distressed interrogations were often rhetorical in nature.

"You should have come straight to me after this. Healing is a complex art, with complex consequences if done wrong. There's a reason that Healers' school is three years and not less," she chastised.

Hermione was glad that no one else was around. She was mortified, to be honest. She had thought she'd done quite well for herself, all things considered, but apparently that was far from the case. Apparently, healing charms weren't as easy to pick up from a book as she was accustomed to.

For several minutes, the matron worked her magic, murmuring a long incantation under her breath as she slowly worked the tip of her wand down the length of the jagged scar. As she did so, Hermione could feel her skin tingling as the skin and muscle knitted themselves back together.

When she was done, Madam Pomfrey straightened up and stowed her wand. "You're fortunate —this time. I know it doesn't look very different from before, but this should heal quite well over the next several weeks. There should be no marks on the abdomen, and minimal scarring on the leg—maybe a thin, white line, if you look closely. Just no strenuous activity for the next six days. I don't want you to disturb the healing especially around your stomach."

Ten minutes later, Hermione was out of the hospital wing and once again walking with Minerva down the main corridor, this time with a conspicuously pregnant silence hanging between them.

"You planned that," the girl finally said with some tiredness in her voice. "You could have just asked me."

Minerva sniffed. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she clipped.

A long silence transpired before Hermione responded in a small voice: "Thank you."

As they approached the worn oak door that served as the entrance to Classroom 34, Hermione felt herself slow down, and her heart began to race. This was it. The Transfiguration classroom.  _ Her  _ Transfiguration classroom.

Noiselessly, the door swung open into the room, and she followed. 

She closed her eyes and inhaled. The familiar smell of chalk dust was noticeable, but not overpowering. Underscoring that was the immediately-recognisable bath of cool, slightly-damp air that called most of Hogwarts its home, even in the middle of an unbearably hot summer.

She opened her eyes and drank in the sight of the room. Wide, arched windows decorated the far wall, and deep rays of sunlight streamed in, illuminating the classroom so effectively that the magical candles in the bronze chandeliers hanging from above didn't even need to be lit. Two rolling blackboards sat unassumingly at the front of the room, stacked in front of each other so as to save space while they weren't in use. Eight rows of sturdy wooden chairs, each tucked under a matching wooden desk, filled out the bulk of the room's empty space.

Actually, she realised, it really didn't seem to be an efficient use of space, particularly given just how far away from the teacher the majority of students were forced to sit. In fact, if she could split the room down the middle and rotate the desks inward...

"Would I be allowed to move the chairs?" Hermione asked, feeling quite stupid as soon as the words left her mouth.

"Of course. This is  _ your _ classroom. You are free to do with it what you wish."

Hermione circled the room once more, taking mental notes of small changes here and there that she would like to make.

With a promise that Hermione could return here later to continue planning the future of the classroom, Minerva beckoned for her to follow her through one of the side doors half-hidden in the corner of the room. "This leads to your quarters," the woman explained. "Except for the Heads of House, most of the staff have their quarters near their classrooms. I'm sure you'll find it quite convenient."

Minerva led her through a short, dimly-lit tunnel and through another nondescript door before they emerged in what was clearly a sitting room of sorts. Two modest windows built into the southern wall allowed a comfortable amount of light into the space. Three doors led off into, presumably, other rooms. Otherwise, the room was quite bare, save for a host of candelabras built into the stone walls and an oval, crimson rug that occupied the centre of the floor.

"And before you ask, yes, you can decorate as you please. In fact, I strongly suggest it —there's not much going on here at the moment."

"Thanks, Minerva. This looks wonderful! I really can't wait for... for everything, really." Hermione blushed and absentmindedly ran a finger through a stray lock of hair.

"Oh, bother..." said Minerva with a grimace when she checked her watch. "Cornelius is coming by —heaven knows why, surely the man has enough to do without interfering with my job... At any rate, you'll need to excuse me momentarily. Feel free to explore the rest of your quarters in the meantime."

"Thanks, you too..." She trailed off awkwardly. Fortunately, the headmistress didn't seem to have heard her; she was already long gone.

The rest of the living space seemed to be in a similar condition as the parlour: clean, well-lit, and largely devoid of furniture. The bedroom did have a bare four-poster bed, for which she was immensely thankful; she would hate to have to drag one here herself, using magic or otherwise. Similarly, when she entered the small office, she found that there was already a worn but sturdy desk, alongside a stout wooden chair that frankly looked a tad uncomfortable.

With a dispassionate shrug, she dropped into the chair and pulled it close to the desk, trying to get a feel for what it would be like to write an exam or grade homework here. She pulled open the top drawer and, to her surprise, found a small cloth-wrapped bundle and a sealed envelope.

Ignoring the bundle for now, Hermione pulled the envelope up to the light, and gasped when she saw her name written on the front. Her surprise was not so much due to the identity of the addressee, but rather because she easily recognised the slightly-untidy scrawl with which the addressee was written. After all, she had known the owner of that scrawl for nearly seven years.

She gingerly held the envelope in her hands, as if gripping it too tightly would cause it to suddenly erupt in flames and disappear. Absently she put it on the desk and began to trace the black ink of her name with a finger. All the while, she stared at it with unfocused eyes, mind blindly looking for answers among a thousand questions that swam through her head.

What had Harry written? How did it get in here? Why hadn't he somehow arranged for her to find it earlier?

Hermione faltered. Her fingers trembled. She didn't want to open the envelope. Right now, sitting on her desk, the letter could be anything. Final words. Instructions. A heartfelt apology. Or any of a hundred other things. The letter was effectively blank; it represented nothing, but at the same time, everything. But as soon as she slit the edge of the envelope, the fate of its contents would be sealed. Schr ödinger's letter.

Eventually, she stopped drumming her fingers on her thigh and fixed the envelope with a fierce gaze as if challenging it to some sort of duel. What in the world was she thinking? Of course she would open the damn thing. She snatched it from the desk and clumsily ripped open the top edge —using magic for something like this felt too impersonal.

_ Hermione, _

_ I hope this letter reaches you sooner rather than later, and more importantly, that it does so discreetly. I know you're wondering how I did it. All I will say is that I have friends in very high places. _

She rolled her eyes. It must have been Professor Dumbledore.

_ McGonagall is none the wiser. Or at least, should be. I wouldn't be surprised if she has certain suspicions. _

_ I know you're upset at what I did. And I know you won't believe me when I say this _ _ —just as you didn't the last hundred times I said it—but I did what I had to do. It was the only way. _

_ I didn't do it for the world. I didn't do it for the Order. I didn't do it for my parents. I did it for my friends. For Ron, for Ginny, for you. Please understand. _

A tear fell from her face and onto the letter, smudging two inky letters in such a way that they appeared to stretch and rotate momentarily before settling into their new shape.

_ As you know, I couldn't care less about the money in my vault (well, your vault now, I guess). Frankly, given the state of Gringotts, that money isn't worth the ink I'm using to write about it. Much more important are the two boxes that should be with this letter. Are there two boxes next to the letter? If not, go poke Dumbledore and tell him that he's getting forgetful in his old age. _

With a smile tickling her lips, Hermione reached into the drawer and removed the cloth-wrapped bundle. She quickly unwrapped the linens and verified that there were indeed two boxes.

_ The first is my wand. You understand its importance: it cannot fall into the wrong hands. You're the only person alive I trust with it. The second box... I won't ruin the surprise for you. I am pretty sure you'll like it. Think of it as an early birthday gift. _

_ If you're wondering, I left the Firebolt and the map to Ron. I'm sure he'll find the Firebolt more useful than you will. As for the map, I have a feeling he'll need it at some point. _

A quick mental tally indicated that all of Harry's important possessions were now accounted for, except two: his photo album, which was currently locked up safe at the Burrow, and... the invisibility cloak, which had been lost amidst the frenzy and chaos of the final battle. At her desperate request, Professor Dumbledore had even gone back to try to find it, but to no avail.

_ Well, I think that's about it. It's time I wrap this up and get ready for my date with... my future, I guess.  _

_ You know what needs to be done, Hermione. Just remember: when one door closes, another always opens. _

_ Love, _   
_ Harry _

Silently, she lowered the letter to the desk and stared vacantly into space as she digested what she had just read. With an abrupt shake of her head, Hermione snapped out of her ruminations and decided to open the boxes before her emotions got the better of her.

She located the one that was clearly a wand box and pulled it toward her. The wooden container had a smattering of minor protection runes inscribed near the corners. Its length was standard —about a foot long—but it appeared to be wider than a typical wand box. Slowly, so as not to accidentally trigger any of the more sensitive runes, she unlatched the clasp and raised the lid.

What she saw made her heart stop.

Harry had not been lying when he'd explained that he was giving her his wand. But what he had failed to mention was that he was giving her  _ both _ of his wands. The wand he had bought from Ollivanders oh-so-many years ago: holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. And...

The Elder Wand. The wand he had used to vanquish Lord Voldemort once and for all.

The two wands lay side-by-side, encased snugly on all sides by black velvet. This explained the inordinate width of the box, as well as the particular emphasis Harry had put on ensuring the box made its way into the right hands.

Hermione ran a reverent finger over the holly wand, unintentionally recalling those few handful of times she had borrowed it for one reason or other. Yet she didn't dare touch the Elder Wand —nor would she have wanted to. It had done its part in the war, but she truthfully wanted nothing to do with it. If Harry were still here, she knew he would feel the same. She wasn't even sure who the wand's rightful owner would be at the moment. One thing was for certain, though: no-one alive had any business touching it, let alone using it.

With a final longing glance, she carefully shut the lid and re-latched the clasp, securing the box shut. Then, she turned her attention to the remaining package, which appeared rather similar in form to the first except that it was even longer and had no runes adorning it.

Gently, she slit the Spellotape holding the box shut.

"Oh, Harry..." she whispered as she lifted the cover. "You shouldn't have."

Inside was a quill that could only be described as magnificent, bordering on ostentatious. Only on a technicality could it be considered a simple eagle-feather quill, for the feather had at one point belonged to a Finnish Split-Tail Sapphire, an extraordinarily beautiful blue bird which belonged to the genus  _ Aquila _ .

As exquisite as typical eagle-feather quills were, those had the disadvantage of being sourced from the rather common white-tailed eagle, which yielded feathers that were typically some combination of mottled browns and whites. This quill's feather, however, started out as a vibrant deep blue at the tip, transitioning to an elegant cerulean further down the vanes. The base of the shaft itself was actually dashed with a hint of green so as to appear almost turquoise. The barbs of the feather shimmered as if they had been dipped in an ephemeral bath of silver, but unlike silver, they were so soft to the touch that one might at first confuse them for a wispy cloud of cotton.

Harry must have seen her eyeballing the quill at Scrivenshaft's earlier that year. Certainly Hermione would have considered herself a pragmatist, ever refusing to waste her time with anything but the most utile of gifts —but there was no doubt that she had stood in the mid-spring rain ogling the opulent quill through the glass display. Frankly, the primary reason she hadn't bought it right then and there was the price tag: some exorbitant amount of Galleons that she found utterly excessive.

Gingerly, Hermione picked up the quill and held it, testing its weight and balance. It was quite light, not much heavier than her current raven-feather quill, but it seemed to balance perfectly in her grip. The shaft wasn't stiff and brittle like those in most other quills; instead, it was almost rubbery to the touch, flexing just a hair when gripped tightly —enough to ease the discomfort usually accompanying long bouts of writing, but not so much as to negatively impact the author's script.

When McGonagall returned to the room some uncountable number of minutes later, she was visibly surprised to find her esteemed student —now professor—holding a quill across her upturned hands like a ceremonial sword, eyes vacant as she stared at and through it.

Minerva cleared her throat, and it took several seconds before Hermione slowly turned her head to the source of the noise.

"I trust it has been a fruitful hour?"

Hermione looked back down at the quill and then to the other box on her desk before finally nodding slowly but assuredly.

"More than you know."

#

_**Tragic Massacre of Three Wizards Spurns Wizengamot into Action** _

_ Late Monday evening at the Sevenoaks annual Fey Festival, a group of four masked wizards attacked Muggle-borns Lillian Tyler and Matilda Miah, killing them as well as three wizards who valiantly jumped in to try to protect the defenceless couple. The vicious and senseless attack also injured seven others who were nearby. _

_ Witnesses claim that one of the assailants, who was wearing black robes and possibly black boots, shouted, "Disgusting Mudbloods!" followed by a swear word. Immediately thereafter, the assailant pulled an unidentified wand from his pocket before casting a series of Blasting Curses in the vicinity. _

_ None of the attackers were identified or caught. _

_ The motivation of the attack is still unclear, but several law-enforcement officers on the scene did note that the two Muggle-born witches were in violation of curfew. _

_ "It's really quite a shame," said Archcommander Langley of the Auror force. "All of the effort we've put into keeping our society safe _ _ —all for nothing. It's law-breakers like these that endanger the safety and well-being of our citizens, as we've clearly seen tonight." _

_ In response to this tragedy, Chief Warlock Umbridge called for an emergency session of the Wizengamot early this morning. In a record show of unity, the Wizengamot unanimously voted in favour of Ministry Edict 146, which was signed into law just hours ago. In the interest of our nation's safety, Edict 146 aims to better align the schedules of our law-enforcement agents to those of our at-risk citizens. Effective immediately, all at-risk individuals* are kindly requested to stay indoors on weekdays before 10 am and after 5 pm, as well as throughout the entirety of weekends. _

_ * At-risk individuals include those with disabilities, those advanced in years, and those of Muggle descent. _

#

For what felt like the hundredth time that summer, Hermione snapped the book shut, fuming. She had spent the past several days once again scrutinising the contents of the various books she had borrowed, bought, or otherwise acquired the week prior. Front to back, back to front —nothing of note, nothing of use. No surprises there.

What really irritated her was that she had allowed this futile endeavour to take priority over her actual responsibilities this summer. Her job, for one. She wasn't sure if Minerva would appreciate her shirking her Transfiguration syllabus in lieu of beating a horse that was quite soundly dead. Not only was it a waste of her time, but it also quickly squandered what little patience she had remaining.

At first, she had been happy for the chance to resume her fruitless ministrations after having taken nearly a week off to prepare for her appointment at Hogwarts last week. However informal the meeting had been slated to be, the time she had spent preparing and shopping and organising beforehand had been stressful for her for a reason that was difficult to place, as she typically thrived in situations like that. With all that now behind her, that stress had dissolved —only to be replaced by a new type of stress that stabbed at her chest and yanked at her hair and made her want to burn the bloody books that were to blame for it.

Rather than whipping her wand out and risk having to explain to her parents why her childhood desk was charred outside and in, Hermione tugged at her hair in frustration and leaned back in her chair until it was resting on just its two back legs. It was something she had certainly chastised Ron and Harry for, more times than she could count.  _ It's fundamentally unsafe _ , she could picture herself saying,  _ Chairs aren't designed to balance on two legs! _ The thought brought a brief smile to her face before it was quickly replaced by the latent scowl she had been wearing most of the morning.

To be honest, she wasn't sure why she continued subjecting herself to this scholastic torture. She had already decided on Tuesday that more extreme measures were warranted: if there was one place she was sure could help her, it was the  _ Biblioth _ _ èque d'Histoire Magique _ —the Library of Magical History located in Lyon, France. The  _ Biblioth _ _ èque _ was the second largest magical library in the world by sheer number of texts contained; the title of first place fell, unsurprisingly, to the magical Library of Alexandria.

The previous two days had been devoted entirely to making a Portkey that could take her across the channel —theoretically, at least. The magical theory governing Portkeys was actually rather simple. Portkeys were merely an external instantiation of Apparition, powered and guided by stored energy anchored to an object instead of by active magic channelled directly from the wizard. Unfortunately for Hermione, theory did not always translate well into practice, and actually creating one was a lot easier said than done. But, she had eventually succeeded late last night, long after the sun had set; and, perhaps more  precisely, soon before the sun had risen again.

She had only briefly concerned herself with the fact that the Ministry would probably frown on what she had done. A very deep, very deadly frown. But at some point in the past few weeks (or was it months?), she had frankly stopped caring about what the Ministry thought of her actions.

Suddenly, her watch beeped, wrenching her out of her thoughts so abruptly that she lost all concentration —and balance. Her chair toppled backward and she was flung quite ungracefully to the floor.

"Ugh..." she moaned, rubbing her head while splayed out on the floor, limbs askew in various directions.

If only Ron and Harry knew just how prophetic her warnings to them had been. Not that she would ever tell anyone what had just happened.

After rolling her shoulder a few times, Hermione gingerly picked herself up from the floor and began to get ready for her imminent trip to Lyon. As she did so, she nervously practised the French she knew, clumsily muttering phrases and sentences under her breath in the hope that it would warm up her foreign language muscles a bit. In all, her knowledge of the French language was just passable: she could read a menu if someone put a gun to her head, but that was about it, despite the numerous trips her family had made to France when she had been younger.

A few minutes later, Hermione descended the stairs and headed toward the kitchen for a quick bite.

"Where's Mum?" she asked upon seeing her dad at the table with a mug of coffee in his hand and a newspaper spread out before him.

"She's at work," he said with a dispassionate frown and a shrug. "Emergency root canal."

"Mmm," was her only response as she spread a bit of marmalade on some bread.

Richard raised his eyebrows. "Is that your breakfast?"

She looked down guiltily at the single piece of wheat bread that was half-way to her mouth. "Uh... yeah, I actually have to head out..."

"It can't wait five minutes for you to get a proper meal?"

"Not really," she said with a wince, looking at her watch. "It's only open so many hours..."

Richard Granger snorted and then took a sip of his coffee which looked downright lukewarm. "Where are you heading, anyway?" he finally asked.

"Umm..." Hermione said after thinking about the question for a second. "It's probably better that you don't know."

"Of course not —plausible deniability?" he asked with a chuckle and a grin.

She didn't laugh.

Richard's smile slowly drained. "Oh."

With a wave to her dad, Hermione left the house through the back door and, after a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, Disapparated.

A small  _ crack _ accompanied Hermione's arrival in a rundown alley: the same alley behind the diner that she had chosen as the rendezvous spot for her meeting with Luna some number of days ago. She fished the Portkey —an aluminium water bottle with a small dent from when she had dropped it last year—from her bag, and nervously held it upright in her left hand.

Her heart was pounding in her chest as she brought the tip of her wand to the water bottle. Each time her heart beat, it reverberated through her body as if she were a drum head; all the way down her arm and hand, each time causing the wand to clang against the metal, eliciting a small  _ ping _ .

What if it didn't work? What if she activated the Portkey but it just melted into a recalcitrant pile of goop? Worse yet, what if it activated but malfunctioned and dropped her halfway between the island and France, into the middle of the channel?

_ Just get on with it! _ an exasperated voice yelled from within her head.  _ What's done is done. _ That was definitely a Harry-ism. Or even a Ronald-ism. Either way, there was no point in dallying.

Hermione sighed and then took in a deep breath, slowly releasing it to calm her nerves a bit. Then, she tapped her wand once more on the bottle and whispered, "Activate."

An immediate burst of foreign power surged through her as the Portkey violently expelled its magic. The world didn't just fade away —it was vehemently ripped into shreds around her as the magic initiated the painfully turbulent process of transporting some fifty-five kilos worth of human to a place hundreds of kilometres away. Hermione couldn't have even closed her eyes if she tried—that is, if such a concept even made sense as she was hurtled ruthlessly through the ripples of space. Needless to say, screaming was entirely out of the question.

After what truly felt like minutes, the Gryffindor landed in an undignified heap on a rough patch of pavement. "Ruddy, bloody Portkey..." she gasped. 

Rather than get up immediately, she decided to wait a few moments until her innards stopped sloshing about. Finally, she pulled herself to her feet, flexing her limbs and other muscles to make sure everything was where it should be —and functional.

A smattering of trees formed a small canopy above her. Hermione had landed in a tiny, outdoor garden just behind the  _ Condition des soie _ —a historic building which had at one point served a critical role in the French silk trade. The landing spot had been almost perfectly accurate; she had intended to land on the grass rather than pavement, but besides that small hiccough, the trip had been a success, and she had arrived relatively unscathed.

" _ Bonjour, Monsieur. Comment allez vous? Je cherche... _ " She continued to repeat French phrases to herself as she dusted herself off and unlatched the gate leading to the street. An examination of the alley revealed that not much had changed since she'd last been here with her parents. Quite a coincidence that the historic edifice that had so intrigued her mother that many years ago was the very same building that housed a secret entrance to one of the largest libraries in the world. But, she wasn't about to complain.

As Hermione entered through the old, oak doors marking the entrance of the building, she mentally rehearsed the instructions she had received from the haggard librarian in Knockturn Alley. A simple call and response, really.

" _ La section sur la magie, s'il vous pla _ _ ît _ ," she said to the receptionist, the French words feeling entirely too cumbersome on her tongue.

" _ D _ _ ésolé, madame. La Bibliothèque du Premier Arrondissement n'a pas de section magique. _ " The library doesn't have a magic section.

" _ Mon ami Nicolas dit le contraire. _ "

The receptionist stared at her with a calculating expression before nodding and standing up. Impatiently, she gestured at Hermione to follow her toward the back corner of the lobby where a shabby grey tarpaulin hung ostensibly to mask construction efforts. They slipped past the tarpaulin, and once they were fully hidden from view of the lobby, the French woman withdrew a thin, dainty necklace from under her blazer. From it hung a small, brass rod that looked in spirit to be a sort of key but had no pins or pegs extending from the shaft —it was simply a thin, metal bolt. She took the bolt and inserted it into a tiny pinhole in the wrought iron door before them. When she did so, the door slid open with a faint click, and without a word, the receptionist removed the key from the hole and retreated back to the front desk.

Hermione wordlessly entered, carefully shutting the black door behind her. Instantly, twin lanterns on either side of her lit up with dim, flickering flames. The room she was in was small — _ quite _ small. In fact, it could have more accurately been termed a closet if it weren't for the fact that all four walls, and the ceiling somehow, were covered entirely with filled bookshelves. In front of her, on an alabaster lectern, sat one of the largest books she had ever seen. It had no title, was bound in leather, and was easily as thick as her forearm was long.

She did a double take when she peeled open the cover. Each page was so thin that it was almost entirely see-through; if she held her hand behind a page, she could see the rough shape and colour of it from the other side. It also helped that the entire book was blank, except for a small page number imprinted at the bottom centre of each page.

Chewing her lip in concentration, she carefully navigated to page 9733, per the old librarian's instructions. With heart pounding, she drew her wand and slowly ran it down the length of the page.

Immediately, the pages began to ripple as if underwater, and a piercing scream emanated from the book. An unnatural —no, magical—force pulled her in; air rushed past her ears in a dull roar: almost as if she were being sucked in by a vacuum. Finally, her face was yanked all the way into the book, but just as she thought her nose would smash into the fine pages of the antique text, her entire head fell  _ through _ the book, and lectern, pulling her body along as well.

Suddenly, she found herself standing in an enormous and magnificent foyer, all traces of the small room (and abnormally large book) long gone. Soft, red carpet covered the floor beneath her feet. Magical shelves full of magical books  _ moved _ along the walls around her, with endless streams of texts, parchments, scrolls, and various trinkets travelling amidst and between the shelves, which themselves seemed to be constantly repopulating and reorganising their contents.

Timidly, Hermione walked up to the imposing desk at the opposite end of the foyer.

" _ Oui? _ " asked the archivist behind the counter with a clipped tone. He looked up from a piece of parchment littered with French writing, fixing her with a gaze that couldn't exactly be called friendly.

" _ Pourriez-vous me... _ " she stumbled, trying to find the right word. " _...me diriger au section _ —"

"English please, mademoiselle," the archivist said with a heavy accent, clearly irritated at her substandard French. At least his English was passable.

She huffed. "Can you direct me to the section on international conflict and civil war? The UK in particular."

"Yes. Follow me." The man led her through a long, dimly-lit hallway that emerged into another simply enormous room that, to her absolute lack of surprise, seemed to be overflowing with books and parchment and manuscripts of every shape, form, and colour. 

Hermione gawked open-mouthed at the sheer volume of literature that surrounded her. This room alone could have easily swallowed the entire Hogwarts library, with room left over for a small dessert.

"This way," said the man impatiently, pulling her from her reverie. He brought her to one of the back walls and gestured toward two of the large bookshelves that had made their home there. " _ Bonne chance _ ," he said rather insincerely.

"Thank you, Archivist."

He wordlessly swept away.

Hours later found Hermione seated at a plain wooden table, with books heaped around her into stacks of various sizes; parchments and even a few quills scattered in the vicinity; and absolutely nothing to show for it. Her left eye twitched as she glared at the pages in front of her. Never before had she felt so abandoned, betrayed, mocked by a book. Her fingers itched to incinerate the offending tome, but instead she unceremoniously slammed it shut with a puff of dust centuries in the making.

Immediately, an archivist appeared next to her shoulder, as if she had emerged from the dust itself —something that was certainly impossible... This archivist was dressed in red robes with white trim, and wore her wispy, silvery hair in an impossibly tight bun. "What was that noise?" she demanded.

"Uh... nothing," Hermione spluttered. "I didn't hear anything. Sorry."

The archivist gave her a penetrating stare, looking for any possible tic that would betray Hermione's lie. Finally, the woman harrumphed, and disappeared just as quickly as she had arrived; Hermione's best guess was Apparition, but she could feel the anti-Apparition wards smothering the library, so that couldn't possibly have been it.

Despondent and weary, Hermione trudged back to the main desk. She was tired —everything was tired. Her eyes, from reading text that was too small on pages that were too grainy; her mind, from trying to distinguish valuable historical content from worthless tripe; her arms, from lifting too many books that weighed too many pounds in a library that forbade any use of magic.

"I 'ope you found everything okay?" the man behind the desk asked in a voice too cheerful to be genuine.

She glowered at the man, but her eyes only focused on him for a few seconds before shifting to something much more interesting behind his legs.

"What is that?" she asked, suddenly alert. " _ Qu'est-ce que c'est? _ "

He frowned and appraised the massive tome she was pointing at. " _ Manifeste du Droit: l'Angleterre _ . It is a... a catalogue of laws in England. Catalogue, yes?"

She nodded. "May I see it?"

"Right now?"

She nodded once more.

The archivist sighed and might have rolled his eyes, though she couldn't be sure because his back was now turned to her. He squatted and carefully pulled the tome from its position on the low shelf into his outstretched arms, emitting a pained groan once he was fully supporting its weight. Visibly shaking, he pushed himself back to a standing position and lugged it toward the front counter. As gently as he could, he let it slam down onto the wooden counter top and then unabashedly glared at Hermione.

Ignoring his overt displeasure, Hermione flipped the book open to the table of contents, and she narrowed her eyes as she read down the page. Her heart began to race; she flipped to page 73 and then to page 1294, and then to the very end of the book. 

Hermione's head snapped up and she looked back to the archivist. "Can I borrow this?"

" _ Non _ , mademoiselle. It is a reference book."

"Reference books can be borrowed for up to a week with proper identification..."

" _ Oui _ , but only for magical French citizens.  _ D _ _ ésolé _ ," he said, not sounding the least bit sorry.

She bit her tongue, just in time preventing herself from saying something she might later regret. Just because the archivist was a jerk didn't mean she could dismiss the rules he enforced. She wasn't a special witch deserving special treatment —she wasn't above the rules.

Hermione was silent as the man retrieved the overly massive tome from the counter and turned to replace it in the reference bookshelf.

Actually, no, bugger the rules. This was neither the time nor the place. She whipped out her wand.

" _ Confundus _ ."

#

"That is certainly one way to borrow a reference text," the Unspeakable said with a whisper of humour. "What was in the book?"

"It was as the archivist said: a catalogue of all laws passed in England —ever," Indigo explained, his gravelly voice placing extra emphasis on the last word. "Since the founding of the Ministry of Magic in 1707. An incredibly magical piece of work, heavily enchanted so that its pages would always reflect the current state of law, up to the smallest and most insignificant of edicts that Umbridge had been passing, day in, day out."

Indigo scratched at his nose, then swept a few more strands of silvery-grey hair from his oily face. "Unfortunately, the whole thing was in French, God only knows why. Ironically, this incredibly magical catalogue was not itself receptive to any external spells or charms —neither to lift, shrink, search, nor translate it. Granger really had her work cut out for her."

At this, Indigo fell silent, apparently content to finish his monologue there.

"And?" the Unspeakable finally asked, frustration seeping into his voice. "Did she ever find anything of use in it? Surely she did, otherwise you wouldn't have brought it up."

"That —that is a story for later. In the meantime..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your continued support in terms of views and comments and kudos and everything else! Next chapter we'll get to see some more of Ezra :)


	9. Strike One

"Consul on the floor!" shouted Cartwright.

Ezra snapped his heels together and raised his arm and wand in salute.

The Caretaker strode into the Barracks, eyes hard and mouth set into a thin line that meant very little in terms of what the man was thinking.

" _ Au commande _ , arseholes," he ordered.

The gathered cadets dropped their arms and resumed their previous position, a position they had assumed for countless hours over the past month.

Faster than a Niffler after a wedding ring, the Caretaker whipped around and cast a Tunnel-Boring Hex at Terry Boot, who had been standing in the instructor's blind spot. Boot yelped and erected a strong Shield Charm which narrowly prevented the spell from reducing the boy to little more than ash and pulverised bone. The girth of the blast of energy, however, was still larger than the diameter of the shield, meaning that the entire section of wall behind him, as well as two sets of bunks, were immediately atomised.

Boot looked a little pale, but he shakily resumed his stance and stared forward without otherwise acknowledging that anything out of the ordinary had just occurred. 

"God, I hate you all," the Caretaker finally said. "Brain-dead zombies, the lot of you. With your stupid faces. Tiny pricks you can't even keep in your trousers," he spat, sneering at Appleby. "But today's a day for celebration —not complaints. Do you know why?"

"Because we're graduating?" Bennett asked hopefully.

The Caretaker's deep, rancorous laughter echoed through the barracks, a deep rumble only dampened by the large hole in the wall behind Boot.

"No, you slag —you couldn't graduate a beaker down the side of a mountain! This is a time for celebration because, after today, I never again have to waste my brain cells thinking about which one of you miserable dimwits I'm going to have to kick out next. Today's the  _ fucking _ day.

"Don't for a second think you're 'graduating.' You don't deserve to graduate. You don't deserve to wear Auror regalia. You don't even deserve to wear those sashes. You're a disgrace to the wizarding world. But Director Rookwood pays my salary, and Director Rookwood has instructed me to send you back to Britain after four weeks. So, against my better judgement, that's what I'm to do. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Consul!"

"Excellent. Now  _ fuck off of my island _ !"

#

_ Splash! _

Water roiled around him and he flailed his limbs about as he tried to stabilise himself in the suddenly-liquid environment. Gelid salt water dug at his eyes and nose, wrapped around his legs, and closed in on his chest. He stopped struggling for a moment to gather his wits, then clumsily pushed himself to the surface despite the fact that his drenched robes seemed hellbent on dragging him down to the ocean floor.

Once his head broke the surface, he took the chance to look around. The other recruits were in similar states, generally splashing around and bobbing along the surface of the turbulent water.

"What in Merlin's —" someone spluttered, only to be cut off by an errant wave that momentarily forced the members of the squadron below the surface once more.

Ezra, for his part, could only cough as he tried to expel the remnants of salt water from his lungs. Finally, he spied a beach some half a kilometre from his position; he took a breath, closed his eyes to focus, and Apparated to the shore.

"Ugh," he groaned, spitting up a mixture of sand, salt, and seawater onto the ground. A series of cracks announced the arrival of the others.

"Damn Caretaker couldn't even configure the Portkey right. A bloody mile off the mark!" said Sturch, rubbing his shoulder painfully after having landed on it.

"Pfft —it's no mistake. He's just fucking with us, as usual," Hughes said.

"Whatever. I'm out of here."

With that, Sturch Disapparated. Amidst a chorus of muttered swears and insincere farewells, the rest of the group gradually followed suit.

Soon, only Taran Robbins and Ezra Rowe remained.

"You going to be okay?"

"Aye. No thanks to the Caretaker," said Robbins with a snort. "I'll see you around, yeah?"

Ezra nodded. "See you Monday."

The two wizards stared at each other for but a moment. Then, they briefly shook hands before Disapparating.

#

Ezra appeared in the middle of Diagon Alley, realising only then that he was still soaking wet. With a grimace, he pointed his wand toward himself and waved it in a circle. " _ Ventusiccorum _ ." 

A powerful gust of hot air emerged from the tip of his wand, quickly drying his scarlet robes and snow-white sash.

The most pressing matter at hand was finding a place to stay for the night. Tomorrow he would search for a flat, but for now, a warm, dry place to sleep would be sufficient. With that in mind, he set off for the Leaky Cauldron.

During his short journey, however, he found that wizards and witches, young and old, pure-blood to Mudblood, were already treating him differently.

When he passed a patrolling Auror headed in the opposite direction, the man offered him a nod that could best be described as aloof. As Ezra neared a bustling family of five, the matriarch stooped down to grip the hands of the two small boys, whispering something to them and pulling them quickly aside, away from Ezra. A Muggle-born couple, at first loud and quite animated, dropped their gazes to the cobblestone path and rushed past when he made eye contact with them. A tall, regal gentleman —pure-blood, according to his own white sash—who had been standing stiffly under a store's awning, called out to Ezra upon seeing him, greeting him as if he were an old friend.

What had he gotten himself into? 

A small commotion up the street caught his attention. Two older witches were harassing a young wizard who couldn't have been much older than Ezra. His back was pressed against the rustic brick wall of Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, and he had his wand half-heartedly drawn.

"It's not safe to be out here  _ all alone _ , is it, luv?" one of the witches said with a leer, her voice carrying down the largely empty alley. "Wouldn't want anythin' to happen to you —wouldn't be right."

The other witch cackled and tapped her wand playfully on her hip. "These streets ain't suited for your kind."

The boy suddenly dropped his wand with a sharp intake of breath, and the two witches turned around to see what he was looking at. When they too noticed Ezra's approach, they casually disengaged from the boy and ambled off, but not before the older one simpered and tossed him a conspiratorial wink. Ezra, for his part, tried to make eye contact with the wizard and offer him a reassuring smile, but it came off as more of a threatening grimace than anything. At this, the boy shrieked and pelted off down a side alley.

Ezra sighed.

At long last, he arrived at the Leaky Cauldron. He was heartened to hear the familiar din from within —the welcoming rumble of idle conversation that a pub of this sort was wont to have. Some things would never change, it seemed.

But as he crossed the threshold of the rickety building, all conversation immediately ceased and he felt himself the subject of a multitude of stares. Awkwardly, he cleared his throat. "Carry —carry on," he said in a voice that sounded very squeaky and artificial to his ears, but must have sounded commanding enough to the others, as the conversations quickly resumed.

"Afternoon, Tom," he said, then cringed when he realised his  _ faux pas _ . "A room for the night, if you would?"

"Of course, of course..." the old man muttered, fishing for a key among a bowl full of cashews and bottle caps.

When Ezra reached for his pocket, Tom stopped him. "No, no... on the house, you see."

With a measured stare, Ezra took the proffered key with a clipped word of thanks. Ignoring the innkeeper's continued protests, he dropped a few coins on the counter-top and swept upstairs, swiping an unclaimed newspaper on the way up.

His room for the night was small, dingy, and dirty. But it was still a palace compared to where he'd spent the last four weeks. With a groan, he shed his outer robes and collapsed onto the grungy mattress. He waved his wand, summoning today's issue of the _ Daily Prophet _ from where he'd dropped it on the floor. He unfurled it and scanned through the articles on the front page, finding nothing of particular noteworthiness before flipping to the second page. Finally, something caught his eye:

_**Ollivanders Introduces New Line of Wands** _

_ In the face of growing concerns for the general safety of the Muggle-born populace, the Ministry of Magic has partnered with Ollivanders in Diagon Alley to help provide the best possible wands to Muggle-born wizards and witches. These wands, part of a new line of wands officially termed the M Series, are specifically designed to aid lesser-powered individuals in casting defencive and offencive spells. We at the Ministry firmly believe that by empowering our lesser-gifted members of society, we can not only keep them safe, but also raise up future generations of wizards that can learn to harbour mutual respect for everyone irrespective of their ancestry or blood. _

"Unbelievable," he muttered. Who did they think they were kidding? The only thing those wands would be better at was tracking their owners.

But then his eyes alighted on an even smaller news snippet crammed into the bottom corner of the page. An announced revision to Edict 146, whatever that was. Then, on page five, an opinion piece about —a hate crime at the Fey Festival?

Surely this was all a big joke? Surely. But in his heart, he knew it wasn't so.

Ezra leapt out of bed, pulling on his robes haphazardly as he dashed out the door. 

"I'd like to see the newspapers from the past month?" he ordered more than asked.

Tom quirked a hairless eyebrow and then frowned before shuffling to a storage closet in the back. After an impossibly long minute, the bartender reemerged with a stack of worn newspapers in tow.

"I hope this is sufficient... sir."

Ezra once again scampered up the stairs, this time with a heap of newspapers tucked under his arm.

As he scanned through each issue in the stack, his face paled more and more. His frown grew deeper at each new article. His fingers grew more jittery at each turn of the page.

The iron hand of the Ministry had been clamping down on its adversaries. Muggle-borns persecuted. Sympathisers squashed. Innocents imprisoned —killed.

What had happened? What had they  _ done _ ?!

If Granger were here, she would have —

"Oh, no," he said aloud, even as his eyes widened in horror.

_ Granger _ .

Without a second thought, he disappeared with a  _ CRACK _ and a discharge of magical energy that screamed its owner's frustration and sang of his fear. An explosion of magic that whipped around the room, singeing the derelict walls and setting the sordid pile of newspapers ablaze.

#

Hermione Granger sat poised at her desk, biting the side of her lower lip as she considered the best time to teach her third year students the Felifors Spell. Currently, Minerva taught it just after winter holiday, but Hermione wondered if teaching it earlier —perhaps just before Halloween—would make more sense. After all, the fundamentals of the Felifors Spell were reused consistently in many of the third-year transfigurations.

At long last, she shrugged and used her newly-obtained Sapphire-feather quill to cross out a note on her paper and then scribble something else next to it. She had at first been hesitant to use the quill lest she wear it out unnecessarily, or God forbid, accidentally snap it —but eventually had decided that if Harry had gone through all the trouble to get it into her hands, she may as well make use of it.

A mighty  _ bang! _ rent the warm evening air, causing Hermione to jump and nearly spill her bottle of ink all over the desk. Many Muggle-born and even half-blood wizards would recognise the similarity between the sound of Apparition and that of a car backfiring; and most would even confuse the two on a rainy day. But Hermione knew better: a car would be more muffled, dulled around the edges, more of a  _ boom _ than a  _ crack _ —and that was not what she had just heard.

Jumping up, Hermione drew her wand, ran to the window, and carefully peered around the edge of the drape so as not to make herself an obvious target.

There —partially hidden behind her father's car. A robed figure, hood drawn. Given the stature, it was certainly a man; and given the silhouette of the stick in his hand, he was certainly a wizard. As for the robes... it was hard to tell in the darkness, but they were a mid-brown or possibly red, with indistinct markings on the shoulders.

No, not red... Crimson. Auror robes.

They had come for her. She had to get out of there. And —her parents!

Immediately Hermione rushed out of her bedroom, sailing down the steps and flicking her wand to douse the lights in the sitting room.

"Hermione —"

"Where's Dad?" she snapped at her mum through the darkness.

"I think he's in the garage..."

"Come on," she said, grabbing the woman's arm and dragging her through the kitchen toward the back door of the house.

Then she felt it: an ethereal tingling that washed over her skin; that made the small hairs on her arms stand up. The Auror must have raised an anti-Apparition ward.

"Hermione?" her mum asked, having noticed the girl suddenly stop and stare vacantly into space.

"Umm..." Hermione shook her head to clear it. "Right. Okay. Get down, and stay here."

Plan B.

#

Ezra appeared, wand already drawn, in the middle of what seemed to be a suburban neighbourhood. He couldn't see much detail in the darkness, but his immediate surroundings suggested that the neighbourhood was quite posh. He involuntarily shuddered when he turned around and found himself face-to-face with the gleaming exterior of a polished Land Rover. Two feet to the left and he would have been splinched into a very solid, very uncomfortable chunk of metal and plastic.

He assumed the house staring down at him was Granger's. Even squinting his eyes, he couldn't make out the number by the door to check it against the address that she had given him last year. He certainly hadn't wanted to Apparate directly inside. For one, it was considered incredibly rude to Apparate into someone's house, even with their permission. Much more importantly, however, he wasn't sure if or how strongly the girl had warded her family's house against Apparition; truthfully, he had no desire to find out.

Drawing his hood up, Ezra glanced up and down the street to check if anyone had taken an unhealthy interest in his sudden appearance. There was one boy —about three doors down, staring from his bedroom window. He couldn't have been older than eight or nine, but that was still old enough to become a potential problem. Ezra frowned and then subtly raised a Muggle-Repelling Charm, mixed with a mild Confundus, around the Granger property. 

Once he was sure the boy had mysteriously lost interest in what was going on down the street, Ezra sneaked around the car and quietly approached the door, hugging the shadow of the wall for cover.

He wasn't sure what awaited him. In the best case, an irritated Gryffindor. In the worst case... Well, he would just have to hope it wouldn't come to that.

Before he could amass the courage to ring the bell, the wall he was leaning against suddenly  _ melted _ , and he felt his body sink down into it. But before he could free himself from its clutches, the cold, liquid stone solidified again, leaving the entire left side of his body ensconced in concrete.

He was immediately blindsided by a Silencing Charm, but he had the presence of mind to erect a wordless shield to absorb the followup Stunner. In one fluid motion, he cancelled the Silencing Charm and then vanished the wall that had heretofore claimed his left shoulder, arm, and leg.

A dazzling series of jinxes flew toward him, and it was all he could do to avoid being turned into minced meat, petrified, and burned to ashes. Quickly, he dove behind the Land Rover and tried to take stock of the situation. The house's front door was wide open, which admittedly was the least of the Grangers' problems, given that a large slab of the adjoining wall was now missing. In the open doorway stood (he assumed) a wizard flinging curses left and right, but the house was entirely dark inside, so he couldn't so much as glean a full silhouette of the figure.

Before he could ponder much more on the identity of his attacker, the Land Rover transformed into a small, though still quite deadly, black dragon that reared back and breathed a cone of liquid fire toward him. Ezra immediately Disapparated, appearing milliseconds later behind the creature —directly in open view of the house. With a snarl, he shot three conjured iron arrows toward the source of the incoming spells, followed by a jet of flames of his own making.

To his dismay, his arrows were quickly transfigured into iron disks that redirected like boomerangs back to him. However, when his followup ball of fire neared his attacker, it illuminated the frantic expression of a quite familiar witch who was already in the process of waving her wand to neutralise the flames.

Ezra's jaw dropped. It was  _ Hermione _ .

"Gra —" but his shout was interrupted as one of the flying disks tore through the space occupied by his head merely a tenth of a second prior. Blood pounding through his arteries, he dove to the side to dodge the next one, and ducked ( _ Down! _ the Caretaker yelled in his subconscious) to avoid the final disk, which grazed his hair as it whizzed past before impacting harmlessly against the ground —

_ BOOM! _

The earth beneath his feet shook as a huge explosion rocked the grounds of the Granger residence, and he was thrown some fifteen feet from his original position. The transfigured disk had simply exploded upon contact with the grass; certainly not an accident. The good news was that the dragon transfiguration had been reverted, and all that remained of the creature was the charred, smoking remains of the Land Rover.

"Granger, what the fuck?"

A Cutting Curse and a Stunner followed. He deflected them both with a mere flick of the wrist.

"Stop! It's me!"

The silhouette, which had been waving a wand in a standard hex pattern, froze.

"It's Ezra!" he called out, slowly raising his hands in the universal gesture of surrender —though he still maintained a tight grip on his wand.

Silence. Then: "Ezra?"

"Yes."

" _ Lumos _ ," the girl murmured. A soft light bathed the yard and illuminated the witch and wizard who stood staring at each other, suitably ignoring the wanton destruction around them that they had caused.

At the sight of her face, the breath caught in his throat. There she was —clad in sweat-soaked pyjamas, with face flushed, frizzy hair in complete disarray. But it was her.

She was safe.

Slowly, he approached her. When he was less than an arm's length away, a sudden thought crossed his weary mind, and he mentally slapped himself for not thinking of it earlier. Almost regretfully, he brought his wand to press not-so-gently into her hip. 

"Tell me something only Hermione Granger would know."

A short silence followed and then a huff. "You've never set foot in Brazil. Your turn."

He worked his jaw before finally responding. "The night before the Dark Lord's demise. You weren't holed up in the girls' dormitory —"

Before Ezra could finish his sentence, she grabbed him by the arm and yanked him inside, or at least what might have been described as "inside" up until a few minutes ago. She silently led him amidst small piles of rubble and scattered embers —remnants of their duel—in the house. When he made to talk again, she just shushed him and half-guided, half-dragged him up the stairs into her bedroom.

"Wait here," she said in a clipped tone before leaving the room and shutting the door behind her.

Ezra could hear the muted footsteps on the stairs as she descended them once more, and then the vague bits of muffled speech downstairs as she spoke with someone or multiple someones —presumably her parents.

He took the opportunity to appraise the room around him, marvelling both at the things that clearly reflected the witch's personality, such as the scattered bookshelves, texts, and littered desk; but also at the decorations that betrayed a side of her that Ezra wasn't aware of, like the faded poster above her bed that portrayed two ice skaters in the midst of what appeared to be a rather complicated dance move.

His gaze drifted to the desk in the corner of the room, and the fallen chair that lay next to it. Gingerly, perhaps subconsciously afraid that moving too quickly would garner her ire, he picked up the chair and set it back on its four legs. A small smile drifted across his face when he saw the syllabus-in-progress on the desk, partly obscured by a small ink pot and a lavish blue quill that rested on top. But that smile quickly evaporated to be replaced by a pensive expression when he spotted a sealed envelope relegated to the back corner of the desk.

An envelope addressed to him.

With a fleeting look toward the door, he snatched the letter and dropped it into one of the inner pockets of his robe.

Not a few seconds later, Hermione returned, casting a wide Silencing Charm over the room and then slamming the door shut.

"Granger —"

"Drop the charade, Ezra," she snapped.

He released a long breath and ran a hand through his white hair. "Hermione..." he began.

"Really? An  _ Auror _ ?" she cut in. "Have you been smoking all that broom polish? Here I am going spare because I thought the Ministry had finally decided to break into my house!"

He grimaced. "I'm sorry —"

"And you couldn't even bother to write? It's been an entire month! Couldn't take five minutes out of your busy and important Auror life to let me know you weren't  _ dead _ ? The least you could do is respond to my letters —but nooo,  _ Ezra Rowe  _ is so bloody important..." she trailed off, her voice fracturing. "I've been worried sick..."

She launched herself at him, wrapping him in an impossibly tight embrace that nevertheless wasn't so bad.

"Hermione," he whispered after awhile. "Can we turn on the lights?"

He felt her nod against his shoulder, and she reached down and idly flicked her wand to illuminate the room.

Eventually, she released him and stepped back with a muttered "Sorry." Then, her eyes fell to his robes —and like that, the embers of her anger were rekindled.

"How could you?! After everything that happened this year, you turn around and go off to lick Fudge's boots..."

"It's not like that all!"

She ignored him. "Was this your half-cocked plan this whole time? Or maybe the innocent Hermione Granger just didn't need to know?"

Ezra stamped down his quickly-growing annoyance and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I didn't say anything. I didn't even decide until a few days after we... after the funeral. And when I got to Aurum Vale —boot camp—they didn't let any mail in or out. Nothing, not even the  _ Prophet _ ."

She stared silently at him, eyes unreadable. Finally, she spoke: "But... why?"

"I thought that's where I could make a difference. I  _ can _ make a difference —"

"Not like this! I've said it a hundred times before —"

"The Aurors are in the thick of it all," he snipped, "and what better place to reclaim our Ministry than from within?"

"You think you can go in and  _ fight  _ your way to reclaim the Ministry?" Hermione snapped back. "That's what got us into this mess in the first place —fight this, kill that, oppress the weak, rule over the powerless!"

"The 'weak and powerless'? You of all people should know the Muggle-borns are hardly powerless —that's Ministry slander."

"Don't twist my words, Ezra Rowe, you know full well what I meant," she hissed.

"Tell me, then, how would the perfect and omniscient Miss Granger go about fixing this?" he shot back with no little exasperation.

Hermione narrowed her eyes as she appraised the Auror before her. "Certainly not by adding another mindless wand into the mix. Indulging a power-hungry Ministry in its pathetic power trip is about the last thing we need! You can't always fight fire with fire."

"My mistake," Ezra responded, caustic sarcasm oozing into his voice. "I'd forgotten we ended the last war by offering biscuits, tea, and unilateral policy changes to the Dark Lord."

"You're so... ugh!" shouted Hermione, throwing her hands up in the air. "It's not the same. An evil wizard leading an actual army of mass-murderers —you can't even begin to compare the two! Unless it really is the same to you. Maybe the blood-supremacist rhetoric has finally gotten to your head. You and your Aurors can upend the Ministry yourself so you can rule over us pathetic, inferior, ignorant Mudbloods?"

"It's not like that at all, and you know it!" Neither noticed the blue and gold sparks that danced around them as small ripples and large bursts of magic dispersed into the air. "You think it was  _ easy  _ to sit in a barracks with thirty-odd sympathisers and train, eat,  _ live _ with them every single day? The amount of utter  _ bollocks _ I had to put up with. The mask I had to wear just to fit in, to pretend to be one of those... bigots —murderers—rapists. And worse yet, knowing that I have to do the same back here in Britain?!"

"And how many innocents are you going to have to arrest, persecute, and kill —just to maintain this  brittle facade?"

"Don't patronise me," he said in a dark tone. "Obviously I won't let it get that far."

"Oh really, you won't?" Hermione shot back. "Do you honestly think this is always going to be in your control? Or do you just like the challenge?"

"Challenge?  _ Challenge _ ?" he snapped. "Do you think this is a game? Do you think I  _ wanted _ this?"

"'Wanted' it? You took the coward's way out, Ezra! You think yourself a martyr, a noble knight to a lofty cause, but you're just a self-righteous, sanctimonious..." she spluttered, not even bothering to finish her sentence. Angry tears tore from her eyes which were alight with fury and stray magic. "While you went off to be  _ noble _ , the rest of us were stuck here —actually trying to do something worthwhile."

"And you think I haven't been?! How many times do I have to say it? Like it or not, Hermione, this is the only choice I have. Things  _ have _ to change from the inside out —and it's change that I can make."

"You'll never change anything, Ezra," she nearly whispered, slowly shaking her head.

Anything he was about to say was instantly expelled from his mind, and he could only stare back, entirely at a loss for words.

"Why? Why did you have to be so..." But either she couldn't decide on a word, or she chose not to say it. "I need you —we need you. Here. We can't just let it go to waste... Everything we've done, everything we've sacrificed."

"Don't you DARE!" Ezra roared. Tendrils of magic whipped around him, lacerating the sheets on her bed and splitting the wood of her bookshelves. " _ We _ ?! What do you know of sacrifice?! If you had it your way, I'd still be —"

"If I had it my way, maybe Sally-Anne wouldn't be  _ dead _ now," she said in a dangerous tone. "Cho might not be God-knows-where in the Ministry's clutches. And  _ Harry Potter _ would still be here."

#

"A low blow."

"It was," Indigo agreed. "But I deserved it. I... lost my temper that night. Both of us did, but the blame lies solely at my feet."

"Why?" asked the Unspeakable after a moment. "Speaking objectively, of course, I would say your course of action up to that point seemed reasonable. It's not like you could have changed any of those things —the protest; Miss Chang's imprisonment; Harry Potter's death."

"One would think so," he said absently, staring vacantly into the space somewhere to the left of the Unspeakable. "Nevertheless, I regret what I said to Hermione —Miss Granger—that evening. Much of it was inappropriate. And... what she said was true. Fire is not always the best tool with which to fight fire. It hardly ever is. Ask Albus Dumbledore; he would know."

"Looking back —if you were able to do things differently, would you?"   
  
Indigo was quiet for a long moment, eyes closed in reflection. Then, a small smile broke through his dirty, stony expression.

"No. I mean, I would have better held my tongue that evening. But I wouldn't have changed my larger course of action. I hurt the people around me with my choices —but I never had the luxury of doing what  _ felt nice  _ or what  _ other people liked _ . When the Dark Lord fell, two paths were paved afore me. I had the choice to do what was easy, or what was right. I'm sure it's clear to you which I chose."

"That is quite presumptuous," the Unspeakable chastised. "Rectitude does not exist in a vacuum. Much as you promote the singularity of truth, one person's 'right' may be another person's wound. You, of all people, should recognise this."

Indigo's crinkled eyes were thoughtful as he considered the man before him.

"The consequences of the actions you take cannot be understood solely from your shoes, Indigo; it is absurd to even try. Your actions are not just about you: the rippling effects of your choices upon others cannot be fathomed by any mere mortal. A butterfly effect —a single decision you make that changes, warps reality around you—the very threads of the universe are shaken and changed ineffably."

And there, just for a moment, Indigo had a glimpse into the mind of the man before him. A glimpse into the beauty of nature that was probably studied in the halls around him. A glimpse that spread warmth to his fingertips, and chilled him to his very core.

"Thank you," he whispered.

#

Ezra's polished black boots tapped imperiously on the marble floor as he marched purposefully through the entrance hall of the British Ministry of Magic. A river of people bustled around him, though he himself wasn't caught in the current. Indeed, he was afforded a small bubble of peace. Even in the chaos of the Ministry's atrium —what with people arriving and departing via Apparition, Portkey, Floo, and any of a dozen other means—nearby wizards recognised his uniform and duly steered clear. The white sash and crimson robes: they were a testament to the raw power he  wielded, the authority he commanded as a member of the Ministry's most elite law-enforcement arm. And for that, the crowd parted around him, offering him a respectful —or was it fearful?—berth.

Though most people avoided him, a select few did rather the opposite. Supercilious Aurors greeted him blandly, obligated to do so out of some misplaced belief that their superiors would take note of their ostensive interpersonal skills. Haughty politicians of various persuasions boasted empty salutations, desperate to demonstrate their support for their Ministry's esteemed Auror force. Ezra found himself returning their ostentatious greetings in kind. He didn't know any of them, nor would he care to make their acquaintance, but appearances had to be maintained.

After all, this was entirely a game of appearances, and it was a game he mustn't lose.

" _ COMPLIANCE IS REQUESTED _ ," screamed each of several dozen posters plastered across the walls of the atrium. " _ Your cooperation ensures the safety of this country. _ " Each poster featured a smiling Minister Fudge flanked by two alarmingly photogenic Auror who crossed their arms like they were the stars of an attorney advert or something equally horrendous. Ezra's fake smile grew even larger as he swept his eyes over them. The posters, not just here but scattered all over major wizarding hubs like Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade, acted as eyes and ears for the Ministry. A treasure trove of information for the DMLE.

"Eric," he said neutrally, nodding curtly to the frazzled guard hunched over the altogether too-small desk by the gate. Eric, noticing his robes and insignia, just waved him through the gate without bothering to inspect his wand.

Ezra swept down the narrow, marble hallway toward the private lifts. He entered the lift and as its gate shut before him, his mind wandered to that abominable scene a few nights back.

The row with Hermione had riled him up so much that it wasn't until late the next day that he had begun to calm down. How someone so ordinarily prescient could be so short-sighted about something like this, he wasn't sure. In her schooling days —as if that were so long ago—she had undeniably been more cautious and risk-averse than her friends, but never so obstinately irenic. It just wasn't like her.

Then again, recently even  _ he _ hadn't been himself. Really, who had?

And then there had been her outburst about Sally-Anne Perks and Cho Chang. All news to him. He'd never really met Sally-Anne, so he didn't know much about her other than what he'd gleaned from hearsay. But as for Cho... He really had had no idea. The  _ Prophet _ 's article had given a cursory and rather inept account of the protest, but no names had been mentioned therein.

The  _ Prophet _ 's utterly blas é attitude toward the protest—the dispassion with which they'd treated the whole thing—it was sickening. Vile. If nothing else, an indicator of just how far gone the Ministry's regime was. It wasn't that the  _ Daily Prophet _ was in the pocket of the Ministry; no, that would be too generous. Instead, they  _ were _ the Ministry, bosom to bollocks.

Surely things would eventually get better. He  _ had _ to believe it, just as he believed the sun would rise every morning. But it wouldn't happen without a fight: a fight that he would fight alone, if he had to.

_ Coward... _ whispered a small voice from the back of his mind.

He had failed once before. Not again. He would prevail.

_ You took the coward's way out. _

No! Things would be different —

_ COWARD! _

"I'm not!" he screamed, slamming his fist into the aluminium wall. The wall buckled, as is wont to happen when flesh and bone meet sheet metal.

She had called him a coward. A  _ coward _ ! Who did she think she was!? The utter  _ audacity  _ of the woman. As if she could understand what he'd had to deal with. Preaching about fairness and morality from her high horse...

He carried the one-sided argument onward in his head, as he had done a hundred times before. The very same argument that he'd had aloud with Hermione a hundred times before.

Every time it was the same. Every time —an impasse.

An impasse. Ironic that that should exactly describe his current situation. He had been so sure when he'd joined the Auror force that it was the right thing to do. He would become a high-ranking Auror, carrying authority and demanding respect wherever he went. He would worm his way into the hearts of the heartless; befriend the friendless tyrants that ruled over the people. He would raise a rebellion from within the very walls of the Ministry.

And then, unexpectedly, he'd found an ally at Aurum Vale; two, even. Great —the more, the merrier. What one person could do, two people could do twice as well. So he had thought.

Reality had other things to say. The last few days at work had been very dull, illuminating no clear path for him. The life of an Auror just wasn't that glamorous. It wasn't like he had ample moments of unreserved discourse with high-ranking Ministry officials. Already most of his time was spent filing paperwork, patrolling the streets to detain various passers-by, and ostensibly harassing innocents in detention.

What  _ could _ he do for now besides keep his head down and not draw too much attention to himself?

_ Too late _ , chimed the pessimist in him. Several of the other Aurors already had eyes on him. Pilkington was growing only more snappish toward him as the days passed by, clearly not letting up on her threat to him only weeks earlier. Appleby was always casting wary glances between him and Pilkington, his unwilling plaything that he surely hoped would become something more. Stana Petrovic seemed to be spending more time staring at him than doing her own work, occasionally throwing an acrid glare his way whenever he caught her eye.

In all, it was quite more attention than he wanted. If he wasn't careful, he would soon slip up and do something stupid to betray his true motives. Then, someone would go tattling to Daddy Director Rookwood, and that would certainly be the end of it for him.

And then there were the odd feelings he'd been having all morning. The brief waves of discomfort that wormed their way up from his legs into his stomach; fleeting moments of queasiness that flitted by, each just long enough to concern him but not so much that he suspected illness. He always tried to trust his instincts, no matter how unsavoury they may be. They'd brought him this far, after all.

"Level two," a robotic female voice announced. "Offices of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."

Ezra steeled himself and strode confidently down the short hallway and into the large, open office space inhabited by the desks of the Aurors.

Fortunately, most of today's occupants ignored him as he weaved his way past messy desks, jumbles of paperwork, and magically-enhanced chairs of various shapes and sizes.

As he neared Weasley's desk, Ezra gave a small wave, which was inconspicuously returned, not unkindly but neither with unfettered delight.

Pilkington staunchly refused to let Ezra even mar her line of sight, instead deciding to pointedly turn ninety degrees to her left to stare at the concrete wall. Braxton Hale, who had been recounting some apparently-amusing story to her, did not seem to notice her change in demeanour.

Parkinson — _ God, how did she even graduate training? _ he wondered for the umpteenth time —was off in the corner, gossipping with the Bennett twins. All three had their sashes placed diagonally across their bodies, looped over the shoulder and around the opposite hip; impossibly snug, of course, across the chest, so as to accentuate their well-sought-after goods. He wondered how much work they actually got done during the day.

He kicked Devenish's bag to her side of the narrow aisle so he could squeeze into his chair without tripping. He didn't know where she was at the moment, but her bag surely rivalled the approximate size and weight of her beloved Mediterranean Sea that she incessantly bragged about.

This had quickly become his daily pattern. He would arrive early in the morning, sort through useless documents on his desk —only a week and his superiors saw fit to bore him to tears with paperwork!—and then mid-morning, Field Captain Sanders would saunter in and dole out assignments for the day. Never anything important, though: not for recent graduates of Aurum Vale. Typically some variant of guard duty or patrol.

Already Ezra was getting restless; surely he would snap soon.

To top it off, they were always sent on assignment in pairs. It was bad enough that the Ministry thought a reasonable use of resources was harassing wizards on the streets who "looked of questionable blood," but worse was that he had to share that waste of time with the likes of Yaxley, Appleby, and so on. Undeniably the whole lot of  _ them _ took perverse pleasure in abusing their authority to hassle anyone who so much as misstepped; sometimes physically. Yesterday, when  _ partner _ Hughes accosted a young Muggle-born witch who he claimed "smelled too much like mouldy grass," he had taken advantage of her detainment to get a bit too handsy with her as he searched her for hidden weapons.

After all, fifteen-year-old Muggle-born witches were  _ well-known  _ for carrying lethal weapons in their bras.

When Ezra had pulled him off of the girl, Hughes had unsurprisingly called him a whole slurry of names, from traitor to wanker to poofter.

One time, he had been partnered with Robbins for a patrol around Hogsmeade. That had been a welcome relief. However, given their distinct lack of new detainees sent to Ministry lock-up during that day's patrol, Ezra was relatively certain that they wouldn't be paired up again anytime soon.

And then there was Sturch —

"Would you look what the Horntail dragged in this morning."

Speak of the devil.

"And hello to you too, Sturch," Ezra drawled, lifting his eyes to the burly wizard peering down on him. "Taking a break from sucking off Rookwood to say hi?"

Sturch had his wand pointing at Ezra's throat before he could even finish the sentence. Ezra was a millisecond slower.

"That's not a very courteous tone. It's a wonder the Caretaker never liked you," he said with all the arrogance that Ezra could have expected.

The Auror office had gone quiet, with several pairs of eyes observing the confrontation.

Then, Sturch snorted, stowing his wand once more. "And I was just trying to be nice." He leaned in until his face was just inches away. "Devenish found a nice little Mudblood on the streets. Thought you might like a  _ gander _ at her, if you catch my drift."

As he turned to leave, he crisply dropped a beige folder on Ezra's desk, scattering several odd pieces of parchment and sending a select few to the floor.

With a scowl, Ezra swept the folder into his "to-do" basket and tried to reinstate some level of order on his desk.  _ Just trying to be nice. _ He scoffed. More like,  _ Just trying to get away with doing the least amount of work possible. _

Wanker.

As he filled out redundant field reports and cross-checked entirely-unrelated population registers, Ezra continued to grumble to himself, constructing various comebacks and poetic stanzas of insults that he'd have to file away for later.

Finally, he uncovered the last pressing item on his desk: a small note from Robbins that had been transfigured to look like an inventory manifest. He quickly read it, set it aflame, and with a resigned sigh, reached for the folder on the Muggle-born detainee. 

Ezra flipped open the cover and immediately paled.

"Fuck."

#

A small crackle of magic accompanied Ezra as he appeared underneath a derelict signpost on Median Ave, a small street that branched off from Diagon Alley. A few waves of the wand replaced his Aurors' robes with standard black wizard robes, and his combat boots with a pair of worn-through trainers. 

He nearly unconsciously returned his wand to his holster and then frowned. It wouldn't do to forget the holster. Impatiently (for it couldn't be undone with magic), he unbuckled the straps and slid both it and his wand into his robe pocket.

Ezra half-jogged from the avenue, turned onto the main street, and quickly approached Gringotts. He couldn't help but slow down and stare at the wall of twelve Aurors stationed nose-to-nose against an equally-intimidating wall of goblin guards at the steps of the bank. That must have been a new development. Neither side deigned to step across the marble line marking the boundary between the bank and the street; it would surely be lethal. Uniformed Aurors were never permitted on the grounds of Gringotts; likewise, the British Ministry of Magic did not tolerate the presence of dirty  _ beasts _ on its land. The fact that the goblins and the Ministry had a sort of tenuous...  _ relationship _ —no other word seemed appropriate, as they certainly couldn't be considered allies—did not seem to quell the animosity between the two nations. If anything, it seemed only to exacerbate it.

Ezra glanced down once more to triple-check that he'd removed any evidence of his profession. Then, he dashed up the stairs and entered the bank.

"Yes?" growled the teller without lifting his head.

"I'd like to withdraw fifteen thousand Galleons."

"I see." The goblin continued writing indecipherable symbols on a piece of parchment with what appeared to be a cross between a Muggle pen and a wizard quill.

Ezra could feel his patience grinding down to nothing and his heart started to beat faster and faster. His finger began to twitch and it was all he could do to keep himself from whipping his wand out and blasting the oak counter to smithereens.

Finally, he could bear it no more. "Goblin!"

"What?" the teller asked irately, finally lifting his beady eyes to meet Ezra's.

"Fifteen thousand Galleons," he hissed. "From my vault."

He not-so-gently placed the key on the counter and slid it forward into the reach of the goblin.

The teller, in turn, appraised the key for a long moment before the corners of his scaly lips turned upward into a grotesque sneer. "Very well, Wizard. But there will be a twenty percent, ahh —expedience fee." 

"Pardon me?"

"Such a large sum of money —"

"Don't try to scam me, Goblin," he snapped. "I'm not in the mood."

"Then I suppose you will have to make do without." 

With that, the teller resumed writing on his piece of parchment.

Ezra gritted his teeth so hard that he could feel the muscles in his neck straining. With each beat of his heart, white-hot fire arced through his arteries, and it was only the not-so-subtle approach of four armed guards that stopped him from making Gringotts bank one goblin lighter.

"Fine," he finally gasped through short, furious breaths. "Twenty percent."

#

"Level eleven. Holding cells."

Ezra didn't wait for the gate to open fully before squeezing through and nearly running down the hallway.

"Authorisation?" asked the guard.

"Auror. Five two five three." He handed over his wand and drummed his fingers impatiently against his thigh as the underpaid man ran a series of detection spells on the wand.

Finally, the other wizard wordlessly handed back his wand and beckoned him through.

Ezra hurried over to the small counter that appeared to be physically carved out of the same piece of stone as the floor beneath it. An assortment of dings and dents adorned the desk. Clearly, the Ministry had better things to spend its budget on than simple upkeep. 

Behind the counter sat an ancient witch who might have been working here since the founding of the Ministry itself. A scant few wisps of hair clung to her misshapen scalp in a way that was oddly reminiscent of the Inferi from training. 

"Glashnog, I received a payment to release detainee..." Ezra glanced at his parchment. "17354." With a grunt, he heaved the bag of Galleons over the counter.

Without even looking up, Glashnog grabbed the bag and, with surprising strength, tossed it onto the floor behind her, into a pile of other similarly-sized bags. Then, ever so slowly, she flipped through the bundle of parchment before her until she found the one she was looking for. With shaking fingers, she picked up her quill —an ugly brown one with half the feathers missing and the other half in disarray—dipped it agonisingly slowly into her ink pot, and drew a shaky line through one of the entries on the piece of parchment.

"Detainee 17354 accounted for," the old clerk rasped.

He nodded amicably to her and swept off down yet another passage, this one shorter and less well-kept than the previous. A muttered password and a wave of his wand opened the iron gate, and he slipped through into the small staging room that adjoined several of the corridors that were lined with prison cells. The room was largely empty, save for a small, threadbare sofa, two rusty iron chairs, and a single guard —this one, a young Auror whose surname might have been Lockshaw—stationed on the far wall by one of the branching cell corridors.

Ezra waved his piece of parchment at the Auror. "17354. Orders for release." He handed the parchment over to the guard who began to skim over it. Then, his eyes narrowed for a moment and he quickly looked up to Ezra.

A short, sharp bark of laughter escaped the man and his eyes lit up. "You fuckin' yanking me? Dev'nish brought 'er in this morning. I put the bitch up for  _ fifteen thousand _ Galleons jus' to fuck with her. An' some sorry chav's coughed up for her, aye?"

Another round of raucous laughter, interspersed with a few coughs, followed. Ezra added a few forced chuckles of his own to keep face, and to disguise his rapidly-increasing annoyance with the guard.

"Ain't sure what sort of bugger has fifteen thousand layin' around —I'll say, if I had that kind o' money I sure as shit wouldn't waste it on no Mudblood street whore. But whatever floats 'is boat."

Ezra clenched his teeth and contorted his face into a grimace as he tried not to let the man's words get to him. He jerkily held out his hand in a manner that he was sure portrayed his impatience.

The guard seemed not to notice, but he did hand the parchment back over. "Cell fifty-three."

As he turned back around, Ezra wasted no time in casting a Confundus Charm on him —and a Punching Hex, for good measure.

He raced down the dark, musty corridor lined with cells, heart in his throat as he counted off cell numbers, no longer caring about decorum or appearance.

_ Forty-four... Forty-seven. Forty-nine _ _ —fifty-one... _

"Fifty-three," he gasped, wrenching himself to a stop in front of the numbered cell. Hands shaking, Ezra tapped the cell door with his wand to unlock it, flinging it open and rushing inside. He dropped to his knees and tried to rouse the unconscious witch lying there.

"Granger. Hermione —wake up." He trained his wand on her. " _ Ennervate _ ."

She coughed and her eyes slowly blinked open. "Wha... what's going on? Who —who the hell do you think you are?!" she shouted, bringing her knee up into his stomach.

Ezra yelped and fell back, doubling over while trying to catch a breath of air. "It's —it's me, Ezra," he finally gasped. He lit his wand with a nonverbal  _ Lumos _ and brought it closer to her so that they could each see the other. "The hell was that for?"

"Oh! Sorry..." she muttered. "Are you alright?"

He shook his head. "Never mind that." In the light, he saw for the first time her face, dotted with purple bruises and scars of various degrees; and her robes, ripped here and there and singed by obvious spellfire. "I should be asking  _ you _ —what did they do to you?"

She let out a huff. "Nothing worth worrying about. I should have recognised the chiral variant of her Dispersion Charm. I can't believe I missed something so obvious —"

"Hermione," he cut in.

She immediately stopped talking.

"Do you have your wand?" Then he felt stupid for asking. Obviously she didn't. "Sorry. Of course not. Let's go." He awkwardly held out his hand to pull her up.

The witch just stared at him. "Won't you get in trouble?"

Ezra again shook his head. "Bail's been paid. But we should hurry."

A thick silence filled the air until Hermione finally nodded. "Okay."

Two painfully slow minutes later found the unlikely duo —a newly-hired Auror and a wanted dissident—shuffling down the long hallway. One, barely able to support half her weight, leaned on the other, who had a tight grip on her upper arm, both to help support her and to maintain the charade of a loyal Ministry official escorting a criminal to wherever it was that Ministry officials escorted criminals.

Upon reaching the staging room, Ezra once again cast a mild Confundus on Lockshaw, and after a mostly one-sided conversation with the man, retrieved Hermione's wand from the inventory locker.

As they approached the elevators, he could feel Hermione's every-so-steadily increasing weight on his side, and her shaky breath on his neck as she struggled to stay upright. She'd refused to go into detail in the cell, but Ezra's impression was that her left leg was hurting her far more than she'd admit.

"Apparate?" she hissed —probably more of a pained whisper—in his ear.

"Can't. Not from down here." He felt her nod against his shoulder. 

Once in the privacy of the lift, Ezra quickly waved his wand over Hermione, transfiguring her hair and eyes to the best of his ability. (It was always easier to change one's own appearance than someone else's.) Curly brown hair lengthened and paled in hue; nose lifted upward a few degrees; cheek bones lowered. Doubtless she could have done better herself, but at the moment she didn't seem to be in the right state to do so.

Ezra's heart thumped loudly in his chest as they stepped off the private lift and approached the Ministry lobby. His eyes darted around, ready at a moment's notice to defend the two of them should any suspecting passerby guess at his intentions.

He kicked himself mentally. It would have been far more prudent to wait until a less busy time in the atrium to do this. Like mid-morning, or even noon, or really any other time than now. In his head, he knew Hermione would have certainly been fine for at least a few more hours. But, he supposed, no use in crying over spilt milk.

As they crossed the magical barrier blocking off the private corridor, he could feel the abrasive tingling on his skin, checking his magical signature against the ones on file —unpleasant as always. 

The loud, chaotic sounds of the atrium suddenly washed over him, and he instinctively gripped Hermione's arm harder. It had barely been a half hour since he'd last walked through here, but already it felt like days.

As they pushed their way toward the Apparition point, Ezra's stony expression was no longer manufactured. Instead, it evinced his utter impatience, anxiety, and even just a bit of panic. So many things could go wrong. A pushy reporter, an overly-curious politician...

_ Shit. _

"Just play along," he muttered from the side of his mouth, switching arms to hold his captive and subtly drawing his wand to dig it into her back. He drew himself up to his full height.

"Captain," he addressed the man that had just stepped into his path. He did not salute; that would be a  _ faux pas _ , given that he had a criminal in his custody.

"Auror," Sanders responded. "What's this?" He jerked his head dismissively toward Hermione.

Ezra shrugged. "Don't recall. Doesn't matter, I suppose. Scheduled for release, sir."

"Hmph. No need to bring her up yourself. Should have just dropped her at processing."

"Jus' like I fuckin' told you, dumbass," said Hermione in an impressive slur.

"Shut up, bitch!" Ezra shouted, cringing even as he said the words. He sent a small jolt of electricity through his wand, gritting his teeth when she hissed in pain.

Sanders eyed her disdainfully. "Right. I'll leave you to it."

"Thanks," he whispered to her as the captain walked away.

"Don't... mention it." He could already hear the pain in her voice as they resumed their walking. 

A pitted  _ Crack! _ interrupted the morning silence of Macaulay Road as the witch and wizard appeared directly in an upstairs bedroom of the Granger residence. By this time, Hermione's breathing was jagged and shallow, and Ezra was doing all he could just to keep her from sliding down to the ground.

With a grunt, Ezra clumsily lifted Hermione and deposited her on her bed —being levitated was never a pleasant experience—then cancelled the charms on her hair and eyes. Not sure if he wanted to deal with her parents right now, he flicked his wand to shut her bedroom door and erect a Silencing Charm.

For the first time, he got a good look at her robes in the daylight. There was a wet splotch slowly spreading over her left thigh.

"Jesus, why didn't you say something?"

She shook her head, eyes pressed shut. "It's fine. I can take care of it." She shakily held her hand out for her wand.

Ezra huffed, gently pushing her quivering arm down to rest on the mattress. "No, I don't think you can. Just... lie still.  _ Evanesco. _ " He vanished her outer robes and subsequently cut away most of the fabric of her jeans. 

"Ezra!" she feebly exclaimed.

He ignored her protests, instead tracing his wand down her rapidly-bleeding thigh muttering one of the few diagnostics spells he knew —no thanks to Aurum Vale. When he had ascertained that the injury was a simple, though deep, gash, he vanished the blood and slowly, awkwardly, cleaned it out and knitted the skin together. It wasn't pretty, but at least her leg was no longer oozing blood, and it would fully heal in a few days.

As soon as the cut on her leg was healed, her breathing slowed and deepened.

Ezra quickly examined the rest of her exposed skin, healing the bruises on her face and minor cuts on her neck and right arm.

A thin but distinctive red scar ran up the outside of her right leg, disappearing under what remained of her jeans. But it didn't look as raw as the other injuries had. "Is this new?" he asked, lightly tracing it with his forefinger.

Hermione's eyes flew open and she flinched. Then, she shook her head. "No. Yes. It's fine. Madam Pomfrey says it should be fine."

He narrowed his eyes. "Pomfrey? When did you go see... What exactly have you been doing?"

But she didn't answer. Instead, she held out her hand once again —this time, it was steady.

Ezra withdrew the dragon heartstring wand from his pocket and tapped its butt idly against his thigh. "Tell me how you got the scar."

She swiped for her wand but he yanked it out of reach in the nick of time. The potency, and promise of mortal injury, of her glare was only muted by the fact that she was largely confined to the bed, at least for the next few minutes. After a short eternity, she slowly released an acrimonious breath. "Fine."

Hermione snatched the proffered wand, repairing her jeans and transfiguring her halter top into a blouse that was a bit less revealing.

The seemingly permanent glare that she had fixed onto Ezra slowly melted. "Thank you," she finally muttered, moving her leg this way and that. Apparently satisfied, she pulled herself to a seated position and began to tell an abridged version of what had happened over the past several weeks.

"You  _ stole _ a catalogue of laws from a French Library?"

"The  _ Biblioth _ _ èque d'Histoire Magique _ ," she corrected promptly. "And yes. And I know what you're going to say —"

"It's brilliant."

She stared at him, mouth poised to say something, but no words coming out.

"Hermione... I know you don't agree with the whole Auror thing... And if I'm going to be honest, I misjudged the whole thing; I don't think it's going to get us anywhere. So..." he paused, trying to find the right words. "If you think this is the way to go, I believe in you."

A small silence followed, and Hermione chewed on her lower lip as she considered the man before her. "That's not true," she finally said.

"What?"

"You, Ezra. An Auror. You said it's not going to get us anywhere. But that's not true —it already has. It's already gotten me out of a tight situation that I thought I'd never get in. Maybe what I said last week was a bit off the deep end." She looked away, pointedly ignoring his gaze. "I don't think you made a mistake."

He appraised her for a moment before almost imperceptibly nodding and turning to stare out her window instead. "Do I even want to know what you were doing in Knockturn Alley before they dragged you in?"

She shook her head, and another long moment passed before she broke the silence.

"Ron's an Auror too, isn't he?" Her voice was tired.

Ezra froze. The word  _ No  _ was on his lips but he knew it would be futile. Her question had been less interrogative and more rhetorical. Resigned, even.

"Yes."

"That's why neither of you responded to my letters."

"Yes... Aurum Vale is unplottable." When she didn't respond, he continued. "He did it for the same reason I did. Ron, I mean. Weasley."

"You've talked to him, then?" she asked, a sliver of hope crawling into her voice.

"Not exactly. Well, yes. Sort of," he added lamely.

"Ezra. You need to talk to him."

"I —I can't..."

"Ezra, look at me," Hermione commanded.

"You know I can't."

Hermione let out a frustrated sigh.

"He's been out of sorts since... the funeral," he continued.

"Obviously," she snapped. "Can you blame him?"

"No. No, I can't."

To her credit, she didn't push the topic further.

As Ezra idly twirled his wand in his fingers, a sudden thought came to him, and he nearly smacked his head in his forgetfulness. "Give me your wand."

"Pardon?"

"It's standard procedure to put a trace on confiscated wands." In a move strikingly similar to one made just minutes earlier, he snatched it out of her outstretched hand. "Can't believe I nearly bloody forgot."

Ezra lay her wand flat on his upturned palm. Then, he waved his own wand in a horizontal figure eight before tapping the butt and tip of her wand. Both wands flashed yellow and then red. 

Despite the dire circumstances, Hermione's eyes brimmed with curiosity. "Can you teach me the spell?" A hint of envy, even.

He smiled in spite of himself. "If you'd like. Although I think it's keyed to only work on Aurors' wands."

The girl's face fell, but then her expression changed and she gasped. "Oh, no! Earlier. Just now. I switched my top..."

"No," Ezra said after a moment's consideration. "We should be fine. You're in the custody of an Auror, after all!" he added only slightly sardonically. "They won't bother expending the energy. That said, I should probably get back before anyone notices I'm missing."

With a small grunt, he rose, tucking his wand back into his sleeve. "Are you going to be alright?"

"Yes. Thank you. In fact..." she trailed off, instead swivelling her legs over the edge of the bed and then pushing herself to her feet.

"Hermione, you need rest —"

"That can wait; there's too much to be done," she said as she started to root around in her closet.

"...did you lose something?" he asked, in his opinion, rather dumbly.

"No, you dolt," she quipped as she finally pulled out a fuzzy, red and gold scarf. "I need to contact Luna."

#

"If you wouldn't mind —some more water would be appreciated." Indigo tilted his empty glass side to side, observing the coruscant reflection of the recording orb on the lip of the cup.

The Unspeakable didn't respond, instead choosing to sit in silence, perhaps lost in his thoughts. Finally, he grunted, unhurriedly rose from his chair, and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

A minute ticked by, and then three. The air around him seemed to become heavier. It wasn't dirty or unbreathable, just thick. Stale. 

"So... it's just you and me, huh?" he asked to the four Praesix guards —his honour guard, as he'd started calling them—who had made themselves comfortable in the dark corners of the room. The joke fell flat, if it could have even been called a joke at the beginning. 

Whatever. Anything to break the uncomfortable  _ stillness _ .

But it was only a brief reprieve. The silence was quickly growing oppressive. Smothering.

Then his gaze alighted on the far edge of the table, where the Unspeakable had left his shabby quill and the discoloured parchment on which he had been jotting down notes. Long sequences of cryptic symbols that likely only a handful of people alive could read.

As nonchalantly as possible, Indigo leaned forward slightly to get a better look. He furrowed his brow. Something seemed oddly... familiar. But he couldn't put his finger on it.

The steel door swung suddenly swung open, catching him by surprise. He quickly pulled back and adopted a neutral —innocent, perhaps—expression on his face.

The Unspeakable quickly entered and shut the door, wordlessly placing a new glass of water on the table in front of the prisoner, and dropping a rolled up parchment on his own side of the table.

"Thank you."

"Of course."

The hooded man quirked his head and addressed the Praesix guards for the first time that evening. "Please, leave us."

"Sir?" asked the one behind Indigo's right shoulder. A gruff voice, slightly raspy, as if he hadn't practised speaking in ages.

"It's fine. Please," he repeated. But all six people in the room knew it was less a request than a command.

After the black-clad guards had filed out, the Unspeakable rested both hands, face-down, on the table. An innocent gesture. One meant to convey indifference. Casualness.

"Fifteen thousand."

"Pardon me?" asked Indigo.

"Fifteen thousand Galleons. How did you afford that?"

Indigo worked his jaw. "I already told you. I came from a moderately wealthy family —"

"Fifteen thousand Galleons is more than  _ moderately wealthy _ , Indigo 9733." 

He scoffed. "If you're so concerned about my financial records, Magus, why don't you just look them up yourself?"

"I  _ did _ !" the wizard snarled, throwing the roll of parchment at Indigo.

Indigo carefully unrolled the parchment, glancing at the official insignia of the Ministry in the top corner and then skimming over the rest of the text.

_**Mr Ezra Rowe** _   
_ Unplottable Location, Tower Indigo, New London _

_ DOB: unknown _   
_ Known alias: Indigo 9733 _   
_ Known alias: unknown _   
_ Known alias: unknown _

_**Financial Record** _

_ N/A _

He looked up. "It's blank."

"Don't play stupid; of course it's blank. You know as well as I do that the Ministry has no such records of you. You saw to that yourself when you arrived at Tower Indigo fifty years ago."

"Are you suggesting that I somehow wiped the entirety of the Ministry's records on me while  _ incarcerated _ ?"

The Unspeakable released a long breath and reached up to rub his temples. "You requested this interview, Indigo, and the Ministry has bent over backwards to accommodate you. I just feel like you're stonewalling me. I don't think you've been entirely truthful this evening."

"I can understand your concern, Magus. If I'm to be honest, well... I have stretched the truth a bit here and there. But I assure you that I had nothing to do with this." He gestured toward the parchment that now lay rumpled on the table.

"Well then, it seems that either you are a very good liar, or you have some friends in very high places."


	10. Erasure Totus

_**Coward...** _ _ the ethereal voice echoed through the empty abyss.  _ _**Why do you run?** _

_ He twisted and turned, looking for the source of the voice, but there was no light with which to look. The world was just darkness. Emptiness. _

_**Coward!** _

_ It came from no particular direction. It was a looming melody from  _ all _ directions. The voice  _ was _ the world. There was nothing else. _

_ "Who's there?" he asked feebly. _

_**You're a coward!** _

_ This time, it seemed to come from directly behind him. He whipped around, but there was still nothing. _

_ "No...!" he pleaded into the nothingness. "I'm not a coward... I'm not!" _

_ The vast emptiness began to recede. Indistinct shapes and abstract forms began to shimmer into being. Stone walls grew from nothing, floors expanded beneath, and objects of myriad colours and densities arranged themselves into arbitrary positions that might have meant something on a different plane of existence. _

_ A young woman stood at the far end of the room, hair blowing in the mystical breeze. Granger. Her name was Granger. _

_**You'll never change anything.** _

_ The same voice _ _ —merely a whisper, but nothing had ever been so loud. It was the girl speaking. It must have been. _

_ "What... what do you mean?" _

_ The girl's hair shortened and paled, and her face twisted and thinned until it was an entirely different person that stared back. _

_ "Still fraternising with the enemy, Rowe?" _

_ He lunged forward, wishing to wipe the sneer off of the boy's face, but the world had not yet granted him the freedom of movement. _

_ "Shut up, Malfoy!" _

_ Malfoy. Yes, that sounded right. _

_ But then, Malfoy grew taller, older. His face wrinkled, eyes narrowed, hair darkened. It was... _

_ "Dad? Wha _ _ —what are you doing here?" _

_ "Brazil? Really? Pathetic. Surely you could have come up with a better lie," said the man with no little disdain. "I expected more from you." _

_ "They don't deserve the truth!" He felt the words tumble from his mouth, but they weren't his own. _

_ "You're just a coward, son. It's not that they don't deserve the truth _ _ —but that you run from it. You always have." _

_ "Please! Wait...!" _

_ But the man was already gone, faded away, with the room following soon after. _

_ Darkness once again.  _

_**Why?** _

_ There it was _ _ —behind him! _

_ The girl. Hermione. The only thing visible in an otherwise empty universe. _

_**Why are you doing this?** _

_ She seemed panicked. Desperate. _

_ "I have to!" _

_**You don't. You're just taking the easy way out.** _

_ Frustration. Anger. _

_ "No... I'm not a coward!" _

_ The girl began to blur, growing more indistinct as every second passed. _

_**COWARD!** _

_ "I... I'm..." His vision was wavering. Voice fizzling to nothing. "It's the only way!" _

_ Then the universe changed. No longer was he in a shapeless void. Instead, he found himself in a long, infinitely long, corridor.  _

_ He began to walk. Yes, that was the right thing to do. _

_ The dark walls pulsed with magic. Thrummed with the energy of the universe. They sang the songs of future stories, living souls, and spirits past. _

_ How could he know these things? And yet, he did. _

_**We are not governed by the choices others make for us.** _

_ A white light, brighter than he could have ever fathomed, appeared at the end of the corridor. There it was! The way out. Salvation. _

_ He began to run. But every step was harder than the last. Each one drew him further from the door he chased. _

_ It was closing. The light grew dimmer. He wouldn't make it. _

_**When one door closes...** _

_ The light blinked out of existence. _

_ He had failed. _

_**...another opens.** _

_ The section of wall right next to him hummed and flashed a deep blue, revealing a simple wooden door that slowly creaked open.  _

_ Unhesitant, he turned and walked through the doorway. _

_ What awaited him was not a room, but rather a void. He was falling, yet he wasn't scared, for fear couldn't exist in this void. _

_ Streams of pure magic screamed past and through him, roaring in his ears and burning his eyes. It was the magic that bound the universe to time. Imprints of the past and impressions of the future flew by, unimpeded by mankind's strict insistence upon a semblance of temporal causality. The creation and dismantling of Stonehenge. The death and birth of Gellert Grindelwald. The ruinous end to the Fifth Great War. _

_**The cycle of life and death continues.** _

_ " _ Ochi intepciani, suflare viata, sufletul libertashi, inima desanja! _ " _

_ A blinding white flash. _

With a gasp, Ezra jerked awake and immediately rolled over to empty the contents of that evening's dinner onto the wooden floor.

#

"What the hell is this?"

Dolores Umbridge was currently shouting at Aurors Devenish and Lockshaw who were standing at attention in front of her. A disinterested Director Rookwood stood off to the side, arms folded across in his chest and face impassive as he observed the scene before him.

"Complete and utter  _ imbeciles _ !" Umbridge held up her hand, in which was clenched today's issue of  _ The Quibbler _ , and waved it around frantically as if to prove her point. "They're going to have an absolute field day with this —no, I bet they already are!"

"Ma'am —"

"It's  _ Chief _ ," she hissed.

"Chief Umbridge, I ain't sure what..." Lockshaw trailed off, apparently unwilling to finish his sentence in the face of the woman's wrath.

"Hermione —Jane—Granger," she ground out through clenched teeth. "That Mudblood  _ bitch _ . You released her?! She's a wanted  _ criminal _ , you worthless moron."

Devenish spoke for the first time. "It's procedure to assign bail for detainees in holding cells..."

"Aye, and I set it to fifteen big ones myself," Lockshaw added. "I didn' think —"

"That's right, isn't it. You didn't  _ think _ . Augustus," she turned to the director, "what the hell am I supposed to do with Aurors who can't even  _ think _ ?"

Rookwood shrugged, clearly enjoying the spectacle in front of him.

She turned her ire back to Lockshaw. "Now she's gone and squealed to  _ The Quibbler _ . And now everyone's going to think the Ministry can't even keep order. Isn't that why we hired you? To keep ORDER? It's in your bloody motto!" she screamed, gesturing at the words emblazoned over the main doorway into the Auror offices.

"Get —just... get out of my face!" Umbridge threw the crumpled up newspaper at Lockshaw, turned on her heel, and stormed out of the room.

#

"Something needs to be done, Cornelius! I can't have people undermining the authority of this Ministry," Umbridge said with a scowl. "It'll cause an insurrection. Rebellion. It's the very last thing we need."

"If you're referring to that nonsense  _ Quibbler _ article," drawled Rabastan Lestrange, pronouncing the name of the newspaper like one would a particularly foul swear word. "Well, I suppose I'm not surprised that you put so much stock in its reputability, Dolores."

"I didn't ask for your opinion, did I?" she shot back with a wide smile whose insincerity was rivalled only by the politeness of her words. "I thought not."

The thin, gaunt man pursed his lips and tapped his wand threateningly against his thigh, but the Chief Warlock had already turned her attention back to the Minister.

"That newspaper is a laughable excuse for journalism, of course. Complete rubbish. But people will believe anything. They always do." She frowned, then pulled out a small bottle of perfume and sprayed a light mist of it over her face and neck. "It's a thorn in my side and it's growing. We can't have these, these...  _ miscreants _ thinking their actions are without consequence. It just won't do. We need to lay down the law. We  _ are _ the law."

"There's really no need to be so dramatic," Rookwood said with a sigh, furrowing his eyebrows slightly. "The Auror force has this under control."

"I beg to differ. It was one of  _ your _ Aurors who  _ released _ Granger mere hours after she was brought in! We had her in Ministry custody —she was HERE!"

"The law is very clear on this —all detainees brought in directly from the street must be offered thirty-six hour bail."

"Yes, yes, of course," she said dismissively. "But can't you just —"

"You know full well that we can't," Minister Fudge cut in, speaking for the first time. "Fundamentally, the Auror force was established as a means of protection for the people. You can twist and bend it, but at the end of the day, we're magically bound by the laws underpinning the very existence of the Ministry. Damn it!" he suddenly yelled, slamming his fist down on his desk and causing his garish purple bowler hat to jump.

Lucius Malfoy silently rose from the rather plush sofa that he had commandeered for this particular gathering. Ice blue eyes appeared pensive as he slowly whirled his cane in one hand. Finally, he spoke. "I'm sure, Augustus, that your Aurors are perfectly capable at their jobs. However, surely even you can admit that it is less than ideal when your Aurors are overly-constrained by meaningless bureaucracy. Their hands are tied, as it were," he added silkily.

The director gave a curt nod. "They're good men and women. Eager to earn their keep."

"Perhaps they could earn a better keep if —"

"What we need," Lucius said, ignoring Umbridge's outburst, "is a change to the rules."

Fudge cocked his head. "How do you mean?"

Rather than responding, the former Death Eater flicked his wand, sending a small piece of parchment fluttering toward the Minister. Before it could even land, Lucius was already sweeping toward the door. "You'll have to pardon me. I have other matters to attend to."

Fudge snatched the parchment from mid-air and read it over —once, twice, and a third time.

"That's... that's..." he spluttered, seemingly more to himself than anything. "The position of Lord Marshal has been vacant for over two centuries."

Rookwood jerked. "Surely you're not considering —"

"Yes. Yes, I believe I am. This idea has merit. Rabastan," he turned to the man who had been silently observing the entire exchange. "Find Marion, and send him to my office straight away."

"Dolores, sign this, would you?" The Minister waved his wand, conjuring a parchment and a quill that rapidly scribbled a few lines on it.

Once she had signed the edict, Fudge followed suit and then rolled it up, securing it magically with a black ribbon.

"Augustus." He handed the scroll to the director. "By the authority of the Minister for Magic, countersigned by the Chief Warlock, I'm ordering the revival of the Praesix Command."

#

"Do you swear to protect the Minister for Magic by any means necessary, from any and all sources of harm, direct or indirect, from citizen, national, foreigner, and dissident alike? 

"Aye."

"You swear to act in the best interest of the Minister for Magic, even at the expense of your own life, or the lives of other citizens, Aurors, or other Ministry personnel?"

"Aye."

"You recognise that you will operate outside of the jurisdiction of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; that you will not be subject to its legal or magical oversight, but neither will you benefit from any of the protections therein provided; and that you will lose any political and diplomatic protection otherwise granted by the Ministry of Magic."

"I do."

"Above all, you vow to uphold the honour, dignity, and glory of Magical Britain?"

"I do."

"As required by the Fifth Stipulation, we have gathered here three witnesses: Chief Dolores Umbridge; Director Augustus Rookwood; and Unspeakable Magus. Witnesses, do you affirm that I have conducted this ceremony in accordance with the law?"

"We do."

"Very well. Marion, do you agree to renounce the title of Auror Consul, with all benefits and privileges therein implied, and accept the title, obligations, and all responsibilities of Lord Marshal?"

"I do."

"So be it. All hail His Supremacy, the Lord Marshal of Britain!"

"Hail! Hail! Hail!"

#

"The Praesix Command was first established in the early 1700s as a means of protecting the Minister, in response to a failed —but bloody close—assassination attempt on then-Minister Parkinson. In contrast to the Auror force, whose creed was to serve the populace and keep order, the mission of the Praesix was dead simple: protect the Minister at all costs.

"The Praesix guards were answerable only to the Lord Marshal, who himself acted as both bodyguard and adviser to the Minister. The whole branch fell outside of the jurisdiction of the Wizengamot, most of the Ministry's laws, and technically even the Minister himself. This gave them quite a bit of leniency in how they operated day to day."

A stilted silence pervaded the air as Indigo 9733 paused. The four guards in the room, recently invited back inside after the Unspeakable's outburst, stood stiffly with their heads cocked toward the prisoner. Their stiff, awkward postures broadcasted a forced casualness as they drank in Indigo's history lesson despite trying to appear nonchalantly disinterested. Even the Unspeakable himself had long since rested his quill on the table as he devoted all of his attention to the man in front of him.

"Eventually it came to light that the Praesix were heavily abusing their extrajudicial allowances in how they treated the citizens of magical Britain. The public began to protest, riot. They threatened to revolt. Osbert was already on shaky ground after the Gehrstadt scandal, so he finally acquiesced to their demands. So, not fifty years after it was created, the entire Praesix Command was retired, and the rank of Lord Marshal was abrogated.

"Cut to two hundred years later, with Cornelius Fudge heading the nation, backed by Dolores Umbridge, Augustus Rookwood, and Mr Lucius Malfoy. It's really no wonder that he authorised the resurrection of the Praesix. So you," he nodded to the guard across from him with a quite insincere smile, "have dearest Minister Fudge to thank for your badge."

"Why are you telling me this?" the hooded man asked with a flavour of impatience. "This is all public record."

"Actually, it isn't; but I can understand your confusion. The reason I'm telling you this, all of you, is so that you can understand. It wasn't pure-blood bigotry, or draconian laws, or overwhelming firepower that threw my world into chaotic despotism. It was a lack of understanding. It was ignorance. Complacence. And I hope that by imparting some measure of understanding to you, your world can kindle just a bit of the flame that my world extinguished."

Indigo's face drew tight, lips thinned as he replayed the events in his mind. "The very next day, Chief Umbridge authorised Measure B, an allowance for Muggle-borns under the age of thirty to reside in Ministry-approved housing. They would benefit from free lodging and guaranteed protection —by the Aurors, of course—from those who might intend to harm them."

#

"Did you hear the news?" Appleby asked, casually leaning against Ezra's desk and wearing an annoying leer that must have been patented to the Appleby name.

Ezra didn't bother looking up from his paperwork, instead continuing to check off boxes that had no reason to exist other than to be checked off. "Does it involve you getting your arse off my desk?" he asked dismissively.

Appleby continued as if his original question had been only rhetorical. Which, come to think of it, it probably had been. "They've finally finished construction of The Refuge."

"And?" responded Ezra in a strained voice, though his heart had started racing. He tried to force himself to keep his gaze on the parchment before him —uninteresting, unsurprising. "This concerns me how?"

The other boy chortled. Too observant for his own good. "I just thought you'd like to know. Rumour has it you were a wee bit of a  _ Muggle-lover  _ at Hogwarts."

The quill in Ezra's hand snapped, spraying a few droplets of ink onto his face and robes.

"Tower Ivory, Tower Indigo... The Wizengamot's been quite concerned with the recent violence and hate crimes against the Muggle-borns, and they've been wanting a way to provide safe housing for them. That's real kind of them, don't you think?"

Slowly, jerkily, Ezra blew out an angry breath. He didn't dare look up at Appleby, lest the scant remnants of his temper finally wither away. Fortunately, his own silvery locks of hair were currently acting as small curtains, hanging down past his eyes so as to keep the other boy out of sight entirely —and to quash any temptations.

"Have I ever cared about anything you've had to say?"

"So hostile," he said, pulling a face of mock offence. "Whatever. Times are changing, Rowe. The tables have turned." With that, the blond hopped to his feet and sauntered off to annoy Lovell two desks over.

So that's what it was. The Refuge. He'd heard whispers of it in the past weeks, but nothing more. Even the director had been tight-lipped on the matter. But all along, he had known that whatever it was, it wouldn't be good news. It never was.

The only real question now was: what would be next?

"What's  _ up _ , motherfuckers?"

Ezra shot to his feet so quickly his chair toppled over, crashing behind him and knocking over a rubbish bin which flung its contents all over the stone floor.

" —fuck!—"

" —Consul on the floor!"

"Attention!"

"SIR!"

Dead silence. 

No one moved. No one breathed. The office was still, save for a small crystal ball indifferently rolling toward the corner of the room; it must have fallen from someone's desk. Crinkled and rumpled papers were strewn about the ground. Quills of various sizes and knick-knacks of unknown purpose littered the floor.

"Thought you'd never see me again, eh? I, for one, certainly didn't expect to have to see your ugly bloody faces again. Merlin's bollocks. Except you, Dennet," his eyes candidly roved over her body. "Like a fine wine, absolutely."

The Caretaker appraised the assembled Aurors, each of whom stood with arm and wand raised in salute. Then he turned his gaze toward the floor, now covered in a slew of refuse, and wrinkled his nose. "This place is a damn mess. What the hell are you doing to them, Augustus? And put your fucking hands down, this isn't a bloody classroom, and I am no longer your superordinate."

"What?" someone mumbled.

Director Rookwood strode purposefully forward until he reached the centre of the room. "Allow me to introduce His Supremacy, the Lord Marshal of Britain."

The Caretaker made a rude hand gesture to Rookwood. "Really? It's such a stupid title, Augustus."

"Not my fault," the director responded, crossing his arms with a huff. "I'm just following protocol."

"Whatever." The new Lord Marshal turned to address the Aurors once again. "As I've always said, honesty is the best policy. So, in the interest of transparency, I want to tell you something. I didn't take this job because it's glamorous, or because it's the best allocation of Ministry resources, or because it gets me off of that blasted island. I took it because I can't stand any of you, and I just couldn't live with myself another day if I knew that I had to be in the same chain of command as you. Also, it pays more.

"Now... Yaxley, Sturch, Boot, Petrovic —come with me. The rest of you,  go kill yourselves."

#

A sharp knock on his door tore him from his thoughts. Ezra rose to his feet, drawing his wand and then briskly, silently, made his way to the entrance of his flat.

He peered at the Foe-Glass propped on the mouldy, derelict shelf by the doorway. Grey, indistinct wisps roiled about on the murky surface of the glass —nothing of importance. He frowned and then pointed his wand toward his door. " _ Postergo Revelium _ ."

A vague outline of a person began to form on the wooden panels of the closed door —far too slowly in Ezra's opinion, but even magic had its limits. The silhouette sharpened in clarity, and he could begin to make out details—feet, hands, hair. Bushy, and familiar, hair.

Cautiously, Ezra twisted the handle of the door and pulled it open a finger's breadth, peering out through the crack. "How did you get my address?"

Hermione tapped her foot on the ground and raised her brow as if to say,  _ Really? _ Certainly she was not amused. "You gave it to me like two days ago."

"Oh." He flushed. She was right, of course. (When wasn't she?) Truthfully, it had felt like weeks ago. Long days at work coupled with restless nights had left Ezra feeling temporally unstable in the past few days.

He urgently wanted to yank her inside, but he impatiently waited out the usual Polyjuice questioning ritual. As soon as Hermione had abashedly described the poster above her bed, Ezra whisked her inside, shutting the door behind her and raising a montage of protection spells on the door.

"Since you have my address... Frankly, I'd prefer if you just Apparated directly in." An irregular request at best; presumptuous at worst. "It'd certainly make me feel better."

"It's hardly appropriate for me to barge in on you whenever..." 

He raised an eyebrow. "Since when have you put so much stock in social norms?"

"I..." She trailed off. "If it would make you feel better. Thank you," she added as an afterthought.

Ezra breathed a sigh of relief. "I'll key you to the wards." A pause. "What's going on? Why'd you come?" 

The girl's face fell and she fidgeted with the bag draped over her shoulder. Jerkily, she shook her head, ignoring the question and instead squeezing past him, ostensibly to examine the rather barren interior of the flat.

"I see your decoration skills haven't improved much." Not critically, just matter-of-fact.

"Thanks," he said dryly. "Maybe it could do with a woman's touch."

But Hermione didn't seem to have heard him. Instead, she despondently dropped into the dusty sofa shoved against the mottled puce wall whose ugliness was objectively unrivalled. 

"Umm... would you like some tea? Hermione?"

She whipped her head up to look at him, then blinked. "Oh. Yes. Thank you."

With a pronounced frown, Ezra retreated to the kitchen to find a kettle and maybe some biscuits that weren't more than a week old. As he magically heated the water, he pondered on the situation in the other room. Usually Hermione was much more level-headed, put-together. She rarely got so  _ flustered _ like this.

When he returned with a mug of steaming black tea —one teaspoon of sugar, as she liked it—he placed it in her hands and she muttered her thanks. An opaque silence fell upon the room as Ezra gingerly sat down next to her while she stared at the sodden leaves in the mug.

A small voice cut through the quiet.

"How did you do it?"

"The tea?"

"How did you..." she took a shaky breath. "You... you've actually done something this summer. You took a leap for something you felt needed to be done, even though you didn't want it. And —here I am, wasting my time trying to translate a bloody book. A  _ French _ book, for God's sake!" She melted into the sofa and began to sob. "What the hell am I doing?!"

"Hermione..." he started. He cleared his throat to buy a few seconds. "I... well, I wish I knew what to say. It's always been you that set  _ me _ straight when I was second-guessing myself —or, you know, doing something stupid." He awkwardly brought his hand down to pat her on the shoulder. "You've never... Well, sometimes you doubted the professors, or the text book, or even your friends, but you've never doubted your own decisions. Your own research. Why now? Hermione, what's going on?"

The girl closed her eyes and shook her head slowly, defeated. Then, she pulled a rolled up copy of the  _ Prophet _ from her bag and weakly tossed it to him.

"This. The Ministry. Everything! How is it fair? Every single day, Muggle-borns —innocent, unsuspecting Muggle-borns—stolen from their families. Taken, persecuted, killed, or just thrown into lockup to be forgotten about. And here I am, cosied down with a book and a cup of tea. It's not fair to  _ them _ !"

"What do you —"

"Open it, Ezra."

He stared down at the newspaper, limp in his hands, and unrolled it. The front page headline screamed back at him:

_**Wizengamot Approves Measure B: Safe Refuge to At-Risk Muggle-Borns Nationwide!** _

"Did you know about this?"

With an audible sigh of defeat, he shook his head. "Not until today."

"Every morning I wake up thinking this is some sort of bad dream," she whispered. "Hoping that I'll come to and it'll be fourth year again, with Ron in a tizzy about the damn Cup, and —" she snapped her mouth shut and paled. "Well... you know."

Ezra hesitantly nodded, unwilling to speak.

A glistening tear started to roll down Hermione's face. "But it's not. It's not a dream. It's not a cute little story, either. There's no hook, midpoint, resolution, or whatever else the writing experts claim belong in a novel. It just... gets worse every day."

"I know."

"We need to put a stop to this. Somehow."

"I know."

"I'm stuck in the boot, about as useless as can be. Ezra..." she said pointedly, " _ you _ need to do something."

"I know, I know! I've told you, I can't," he spluttered. "What do you think I can do?! Scare the other Aurors with mounds of paperwork? Bore them into a revolution?"

"You're in a prominent position at the Ministry —"

"It's rubbish! Especially with the Praesix stomping around —or did you not see?" he snapped with no little sarcasm, waving the back page of the newspaper in Hermione's face.

She snatched the paper from him and quickly scanned over the conspicuously short article he had pointed out. When she was finished, she raised her gaze to his. But her expression had since drained of anger and frustration, and was instead replaced by a look that Ezra was only too familiar with. A look that made his heart stop, flip, and race all at the same time.

#

"That night, I started to wonder if part of the reason for the reinstatement of the Praesix was that they knew a traitor was in their midst."

"You believed your cover was blown?"

"Me? No. Maybe. I don't think so. I was too obvious a choice, Unspeakable. It was, of course, widely suspected that my ideologies were not...  _ fully aligned _ with those of the Aurors around me. But I had never outwardly expressed any anti-Ministry sentiment."

"So," the Unspeakable said, interest clearly piqued, "your friend, Robbins?"

Indigo 9733 shook his head. "I liked to think that I was good at concealing my emotions when necessary, but in all honesty I was —still am—quite hot-headed. Taran Robbins, on the other hand, knew how to lay low. I was quite certain his intentions hadn't been discovered."

"...then who?"

He smiled and once again shook his head, instead opting to change the topic.

"Miss Granger's plan that evening was nothing less than obvious —in hindsight, of course. Because the Lord Marshal had just been instated, the Praesix Command had initiated an active recruitment spree that would span the next several months. So, just as I had mostly successfully infiltrated the Auror force, she felt that the best plan of action on my part was to do the same for the Praesix." He shot a wide grin to one of the guards in the far corner. "Despite my  moderate concerns that the Ministry had found me out, I knew I would be remiss if I didn't give it a shot."

At this, Indigo fell silent and began to absentmindedly drum his fingers on the table before him. After an interminably long period, he sighed and resumed speaking.

"I tried. I really did. In the weeks following, I played the part of Obedient Ministry Auror. Arrogant and imperious, a power-hungry law-enforcement official. It..." he shuddered. "It was terrible. Do you know how many people I arrested?"

"Ten —no, twenty?"

"Thirty-eight.  _ Thirty-eight  _ fucking Muggle-borns and Muggle sympathisers. Their only crime was being outdoors on the same day that I was trying to get a promotion. Their  _ ONLY _ crime!" he screamed. A torrent of energy whiplashed out, smashing into the walls on either side of him. 

Immediately, the Praesix guards jumped up and sent a wave of hexes toward him, but the Unspeakable Magus effortlessly batted them away with a wave of his hand.

"Please," he said with a hint of exasperation aimed at the guards. "I'm trying to question my prisoner."

"The things I did... they were inexcusable," Indigo continued as if he had not been interrupted. "Things that, to this day, Miss Granger doesn't know of. But... despite all of this," he shook his head sorrowfully, "I knew it wasn't to be. My heart wasn't in it. I knew that. They knew that. I was not to become a Praesix."

The Unspeakable, for his part, only stared.

"I didn't know what else to do. That plan was a dead end. All of our plans, our goals, our hopes —were moot. Or so I thought.

"As it turns out, even magical beings aren't immune to the cold, clammy grasp of human disease. One rainy day, Hermione became quite ill. We didn't know it at the time, but that day marked a turning point in our plans —in our rebellion—and in our lives."

#

With a resigned moan, Hermione vomited again into the toilet. She groaned, unsteadily pushing herself to her feet before turning to prop herself up against the washbasin. She didn't bother to look in the mirror —she knew she looked worse than she felt, and that was saying something. After taking a calming breath, she rinsed out her mouth and began the arduous journey back to her room.

"Are you alright, honey?"

"What do you think?" she slurred back, though the intended sarcasm was lacking.

Jane sighed, holding the blanket up so that her daughter could collapse into bed without obstruction. "It's been years since you've been so ill. Are you sure I shouldn't call Dr Asher?"

"I'll be fine, Mum. It's just the stress of the summer, I think..." She trailed off as she was overcome by a weak coughing fit. "I'm probably due for it, anyway. As you said, it's been a few years."

"Not since you left for Hogwarts, I'm sure," her mother said with a frown. "Hmph. Well, if you're sure. But if you're not better in two days, I  _ am _ taking you to the clinic."

A sharp pecking sound from the far wall brought both women's gaze to the window. A small, tawny owl sat perched on the sill, staring imperiously through the glass.

"I've got —"

"No —you can stay in bed," Jane said with a look that made it quite clear what would happen if the girl tried to get up. "I know how to open a window."

Hermione flushed, but nodded.

Once Jane had relieved the owl of its burden, she handed the sealed envelope over to Hermione, who carefully opened it and then let out a small squeak. "Oh no! I'd completely forgotten. We have a full staff meeting tomorrow."

"You're in no state to go to school, young lady."

"Mum, I'm a professor now —"

"That's no excuse. Professor or not, you are far too ill to be travelling, much less traipsing around a castle all day."

"It's not that difficult to Appar —" but she was once again interrupted by a coughing spasm.

Though she didn't say anything aloud, Jane's face conveyed everything it needed to: a combination of love, concern, and reproof.

Hermione sighed.

"I will respond to the Headmistress and tell her that you can't make it," Jane said softly. "If... if that's okay?"

"Yes, Mum... Thank you."

#

"Why are we doing this again?"

"You'll see soon enough, Falkner," the Chief Warlock said with a tight smile. "Now please, shut up."

The entourage of wizards marched purposefully down the path leading to Hogwarts. Dolores Umbridge was, unsurprisingly, surrounded by an honour guard of two Praesix and two Aurors. Accompanying her were all twelve members of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, including Lucius Malfoy himself.

Once the group reached the main gate, Lucius pulled a parchment from his robe and unrolled it, eyes quickly reviewing the missive. "Everything is in order, Dolores. It's been signed by the rest of the board."

"Very well." She gestured for him to proceed.

With a muttered incantation, the blond wizard conjured a small, but still quite ornate, podium. He placed the parchment down and quickly signed it. As soon as he did, the parchment glowed a brilliant white and then burst into flames. Instead of burning it to ashes, however, the flames merely danced on the surface of the parchment for several seconds before receding into nothingness.

"It is done."

"Splendid," said the Chief Warlock with a wide smile. She pulled out her own parchment and quill, this one quite a bit fancier than Lucius'. "By the authority of the Minister for Magic and the Chief Warlock..." —she signed the parchment—"you are now Headmaster of Hogwarts."

This time, there was no accompanying magical display to the announcement.

"Please disable the Floo, Headmaster," the woman ordered.

Lucius scowled but did as he was instructed, waving his wand in a complicated series of motions.

"Guards —remove this obstruction." She gestured dismissively at the locked gate ahead of her.

As one, the two Aurors and two Praesix lifted their wands: " _ Reducto _ !"

_**BOOM!** _

The wrought iron gate, a symbol of peace and protection for Hogwarts for the past uncountably many years, was quite literally blown off its hinges, landing a distance away in a crumpled pile of metal.

"How  _ wonderful _ ," Dolores squealed. She set off for the castle, with the rest of the group on her heels.

"What in Merlin's name..." Minerva McGonagall's stern voice carried down the winding path leading toward the castle. By now, she was hastily making her way down the lawn to ascertain the cause of the commotion, with a contingent of Hogwarts faculty behind her.

When the headmistress turned the base of the small, rocky crag, her eyes widened and she stared, momentarily stunned, at the approaching party. Then —

"Are you —have you gone—absolutely, barking  _ mad _ ?" she spluttered, her voice nearly cracking in her arrant fury. Several wisps of hair had escaped from her once-immaculate bun, erratically waving about in the breeze. "Do you have any idea what you've just —"

"Please, spare us the theatrics, Minerva."

"Even you couldn't possibly be that arrogant, Dolores. The grounds of Hogwarts are off-limits. The Charter —"

"Chief Umbridge, if you will," she corrected. "Show some respect for your superiors. Besides, the Charter has been abrogated," she added with a very large, and quite fake, smile.

A gasp, and more than a few whispers, erupted from the faculty huddled behind Minerva.

"I beg your pardon?" McGonagall said in a dangerous tone. "Dolores, much as you may think otherwise, you cannot simply annul any law that you don't like. Despite your shamefully substandard intellectual prowess, I'd expect even you to know as much."

"I will let that comment slide," Umbridge hissed, " _ this _ time. I'm quite aware of the legal protections enjoyed by the Hogwarts Charter. No, the Ministry cannot legally abolish the Charter. But," the squat woman gestured pointedly behind her, "the Board can."

"Yes..." a grating, raspy voice said from behind McGonagall's right shoulder. Everyone turned to look at Professor Binns —or perhaps more accurately, look  _ through _ him, for he was nearly invisible in the broad daylight. "Per section sixty-one, sub-section D, Rescission Clause, of the Hogwarts Charter; 'The Hogwarts Board of Governors may, by unanimous vote, declare this Charter null and void, pursuant to —'"

"Thank you, Cuthbert," Minerva snipped, before quickly turning her ire back toward the Chief Warlock. "How convenient for you to wait until Albus was out for the day. Too worried that a nearly hundred-year-old wizard would still make it clear who's in charge here?"

"ENOUGH! I'm quite through with your heretical attitude, Headmistress M —excuse me,  _ Madam _ McGonagall."

Minerva could only raise an eyebrow in response.

"Oh, dear me... I must have forgotten to mention it. Allow me to introduce Hogwarts' latest headmaster, Lucius Malfoy."

"Listen to me very carefully, Dolores..."

"I have already told you once," Umbridge spat, "you are to address me as Chief Umbridge —"

"Dolores," responded McGonagall, slowly and clearly as if speaking to an impertinent child, "you are playing a dangerous game. The world is not your oyster, ready for the taking. You may have voided a centuries-old Charter. You may have declared a new headmaster. But between you and me...", she lowered her voice a notch, "...Hogwarts knows better."

With a howl, Umbridge whipped her wand up, releasing a mottled yellow spell toward the former headmistress who deflected it into the nearby hillside.

"How dare you —" the witch began to yell, before instead deciding to send another hex at McGonagall. This one met a similar fate as the last. Before she could cast a third spell, she was met with a silent but effective Disarming Charm, courtesy of Minerva McGonagall. The wand flew out of her hand into the air, only to be caught by—Lucius Malfoy.

"Ladies, please," the blond drawled silkily. "This bickering is quite unbecoming."

He offered the wand back to Umbridge, who snatched it from his hand with a small huff. Then, she took a deep breath and smoothed down her robes as if nothing were out of the ordinary. 

"Now," the woman said imperiously, eyes focused intently on McGonagall, "where is the Mudblood?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The Mudblood. Granger. I don't see her."

"I don't see why you would," said Minerva with a grim smile. "She's feeling quite ill today; she wasn't able to make it. But I'm sure she would be willing to meet with you at her earliest convenience."

"Don't patronise me, Minerva —"

"I could leave a note for her, if you'd like."

"That's quite enough," Lucius said shortly, all traces of his usual politesse gone. "My patience is wearing thin."

"I  _ will _ have Hermione Granger in my custody by the end of the day, Lucius!" Umbridge shrieked.

"We will continue this discussion later," he said with finality. The forcefulness of his voice made it undoubtedly clear who was really in control here, despite Dolores Umbridge's title of Chief Warlock. "All of you" —he glared at the professors gathered before him—"are to accompany me to the headmaster's office.  _ My _ office," he added.

The teachers present exchanged looks of hesitance, and then resignation. With a smattering of whispers and murmurs, they turned to follow their new headmaster and his associates.

Minerva watched —silently, solemnly—as the crowd departed for the castle.

"I'm sorry, Albus," she whispered.

Then, she turned on her heel and fled.

#

_ Professor Granger, _

_ Do not return to Hogwarts. It is not safe. _

_ M _

#

"How could they do this?!" she yelled, hands thrown up in the air out of exasperation, frustration, or just anger. Most of her hair had long since fell from its bun, and instead danced around as the girl paced irritably across the bedroom. "That charter is older than the  _ Ministry _ , and they have the audacity to revoke it? What the hell is her problem?"

There was no need to clarify who "her" was.

"The one safe place — _**one** _ ! And she's gone ahead and ripped that out from underneath us. Where are the Muggle-borns going to go? They most certainly are not going to be attending Hogwarts, I can guarantee that."

Ezra could only nod as Hermione laid into him —as a proxy for the Ministry, of course. She had been at it for nearly a half hour by now, but he knew her well enough to know that his role here was merely to nod and empathise, not to interrupt with any misplaced wisdom of his own. 

"It's an embarrassing state of affairs when the Ministry has to desecrate the most respected magical school in the world  _ just to get their hands on a single witch _ ," she seethed.

Ezra subtly palmed his wand, just in case; not to use it against her, but to mitigate any inadvertent spell damage that may result from his friend's tirade.

"I assure you, Ezra, I will not take this sitting down. Fudge may be backed by Umbridge, and Malfoy, Rookwood, the DMLE... the entire Board of Governors. And now Hogwarts. But we will put a stop to this. We have to..." Hermione trailed off, and finally sank onto her bed.

Just as he was about to open his mouth to respond, Ezra felt a cold, ominous  _ chill _ wash over him. He gasped and instinctively looked out the open window.

"Ezra?"

"Did you feel that?" he quickly asked. 

"No... what is it?" To her credit, she rose and drew her wand.

"I... I don't know. I thought I felt a chill, but —maybe I was just imagining things."

She eyed him dubiously.

"Probably just a draft," he finally said, though they both knew neither was convinced. "Sorry," he continued. "Long day."

Hermione simply closed her eyes and nodded, releasing a strangled sigh.

"You know she won't stop," said Ezra.

"I know."

"Umbridge will chase you to the end of the earth to get her hands on you."

"I know."

"Hermione..."

"Hmm?"

"Your parents. As long as they're living with you, they're in danger. You need to get them out of the country."

#

"What's going on, Mia?"

Jane and Richard Granger were seated side-by-side on the large, slate sofa that acted as a centrepiece to their sitting room. Both of them stared up at their daughter, who stood with an anxious expression, arms awkwardly crossed and left foot cocked out to the side. To an outside observer, one might think that this teenage girl was poised to lecture her parents after they had misbehaved, but the truth of the matter was far less domestic.

"Mum, Dad..." Hermione eventually mumbled. After a pause, she blurted, "Youhavetoleave." 

"What was that?" Jane asked with a slight frown.

"You've got to leave the country." Hermione looked down at her shoes, unwilling to meet her parents' gaze. "It's not safe here. My government has been... they'll do anything in their power to find me. They've already attacked Hogwarts" —she ignored her parents' gasp—"and the logical next step is to attack you next... to get to me."

"But you said you've put up protections around the house," her father interjected. "We should be safe then."

"I have! But... but eventually they'll find a way. They always do."

The room fell silent. Painfully so. Hermione desperately wanted to shout, to scream, to shake her parents, but all they did was exchange a series of looks that must have been meaningful to them, but left Hermione clueless. At one point, she opened her mouth to say something, but the heavy weight of the silence seemed to push it back shut.

Finally, Richard, clearly the designated mouthpiece for the couple, spoke. "I know we talked about this a few weeks ago, Hermione. And we truly wish you didn't have to deal with this —any of it. But you do. And we accept that. You do what you need to do. But we, your mother and I, will do what  _ we _ need to do. And that does not include leaving the country. No matter how terrible your Ministry becomes; no matter how dangerous it is —we won't live in fear."

"Why not?!" she shouted. " _ You're _ the one that always said a little bit of fear was healthy! That people who aren't afraid aren't brave: they're misinformed."

"Your great aunt Marva —"

"Has nothing to do with this," she seethed. "These aren't Muggle extremists with guns. These are people that can kill you with a snap of their fingers! You have no way to fight back. You wouldn't even see them coming."

"Perhaps not, but I will not give in to this Ministry of yours by succumbing to fear, uprooting my household, and running away. We are not cowards!"

Hermione stared in disbelief, mouth hanging open. "Mum..." she finally croaked out. Pleading.

After a pause, Jane shook her head. "I  _ am _ scared. We both are. But we can't let our lives be determined —forced—by others.

"Unbelievable," muttered Hermione, though in the deepest part of her heart, she couldn't blame them for their decision: a decision to do what they thought was right. "Fine... Fine. In that case —I have to leave."

"What?" both parents said in unison.

"I've got to move out. If you won't leave, fine... but I will. I will  _ not _ sit here and lead Umbridge and her crooks directly to you. It's not right. I'm sorry, Mum..." she whispered, already feeling the moisture welling in her eyes. 

"Then where will you go?"

"The one safe place left."

#

" _ Au commande _ !"

Ezra quickly zoned out as Archcommander Langley droned on about regulations, honour, and glory —and Mudbloods. Across from him, Robbins subtly tried to get his attention by executing an awkward series of weird facial gestures that looked moderately painful. Ezra, for his part, ignored the boy. He had more important things on his mind.

Ever since last night, when Hermione had Apparated to his flat in a panic and proceeded to vent to him, he had been feeling... off. Something was wrong; he was sure of it. A little  _ something _ niggled in the back of his mind, poking around, begging to be let out —as if he had forgotten something important. But  _ what _ ?

A sudden burst of pain in his stomach wrenched him from his thoughts and knocked him to the floor. He dry-heaved, gasping for breath, and after a small eternity, finally managed a weak one. Ezra tried to push himself to his knees, but a hard boot on his back shoved him back down into the floor.

"Are you paying attention, Auror Rowe?"

"Umm... yes, sir," he gasped.

"Really?" asked Langley.

They both knew the answer.

"What was the last thing I said?"

"Weekly quotas, sir." A safe bet. Probably half of the words that ever came out of the Archcommander's mouth had to do with Mudbloods and their ilk.

"I'm certain you've reached your weekly quota on the amount of dung coming from your mouth."

The other Aurors snickered.

" _ Fifty  _ press-ups, Rowe. Make them good."

After a gruesome set of press-ups, Ezra moved to rise to his feet, but just as he was about to do so, he received another swift —and hard—kick to his stomach. This time, he puked a mix of bile and blood. After what felt like hours, he finally regained his ability to breathe, and shakily pushed himself to his feet.

"Are you paying attention now?"

"Sir," Ezra whispered weakly.

Despite the rather painful interruption, Ezra once again fell silent in his thoughts as soon as Langley had left and the Aurors had dispersed to their desks. The next hour was spent absentmindedly filling out droves of paperwork, not really paying attention until someone dropped a folded note on his desk. With a sigh, he opened it, and his heart nearly stopped.

_ Albus Dumbledore is dead. Albus Dumbledore is erased. _

A torrent of images slammed into him, an overwhelming assault of lost memories that would have once again knocked him to the ground had he not already been seated. Memories of Albus Dumbledore: making a toast at his first welcoming feast; cheering with little impartiality during a Gryffindor–Slytherin Quidditch match; presiding tiredly over Harry Potter's funeral. Memories that had been locked away but were now freed.

Indeed, the question had never been  _ what _ he had forgotten. But rather,  _ whom _ .

In a sudden moment of realisation, Ezra snapped his head up —but the messenger was already gone.

#

Wild tendrils of magic lashed out milliseconds ahead of his arrival, upsetting the natural equilibrium of magic typically found in the air. Pulses of energy cracked like whips against whatever was in the way, flash-igniting nearby linens and adorning the wooden walls with searing hot gashes.

As soon as Ezra blinked into existence, he frantically looked all around, panic bubbling up from his stomach and spilling out —unconfined, unmanageable. Where was she? Where was Hermione?

"Ez —"

He whipped around, wand pointed shakily at the girl's chest. His breathing was shallow; vision wavering; hot tears forming in his eyes. "Hermione..." he whispered.

"What's wrong?" the girl asked, taking a small step forward.

Ezra leapt back. 

"No." He jerked his head once. He couldn't help it —he needed to regain control. "He... he's gone."

"What's going on?" she asked slowly, concern in her eyes. "What are you talking about? Ezra?"

"STOP IT!" The tears that had welled in his eyes began to fall, each one burning the floor as it fell. "Stop being so  _ calm _ ! He's DEAD!"

"Ezra!" Hermione grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. "Take a deep breath and tell me. Who died?  _ Who is it? _ "

Despite his fervent shouting before, it was a long moment before he finally managed to whisper: "Professor Dumbledore."

Hermione's lips parted and didn't close. She stared at him, unseeing, and began to slowly shake her head. "What?"

With a scowl, he angrily shrugged her hands off of his shoulders. "Albus Dumbledore is dead, Hermione."

But she continued to shake her head.

"Well?" he nearly sobbed. "Say something... anything!"

"Ezra... Who is Albus Dumbledore?"

#

"I'm not sure I understand —"

"Please don't patronise me, Unspeakable. I know about Erasure Totus."

The Unspeakable's hand jerked, scratching an errant line through one of the symbols he was writing. "What did you just say?"

"Who controls the past, controls the future; who controls the present, controls the past." Indigo's face morphed into a strained smile. "I know what it does. I know its effects. I know that —with one exception—the only people privy to the ritual's existence are the Praesix Command and the Unspeakable Magus. Not even the Minister himself knows."

"How can you know this?" the other man asked slowly.

But Indigo ignored him, and his expression suddenly turned sour. "Tens. Hundreds. Thousands. I have no idea how many people have been effaced over the years. But... the worst part, Unspeakable, is that I'll never know.  _ No one _ will ever know! A ritual that the Ministry created.  _ Your _ ministry," he whispered. "How could you?"

"Indigo..." the Unspeakable sighed. "Erasure Totus was developed as a tool for the Lord Marshal's regime. A tool whose only purpose was to help carry out the Praesix's mandate: protect the Minister. Irrespective of how it may have been used or misused —"

"Codswallop! Do you really believe that assuring the Minister's safety is predicated on undermining the very nature of humanity? It's an utter sham. All because your Praesix are insecure, spineless imbeciles who think it's their God-given right to obliterate the very memory of someone who's  _ already dead _ !" Indigo snarled, eyes bright with anger.

"Don't blame the tool for misuse by the hand of its owner."

"I'm not. I'm blaming  _ you. _ The Ministry. These people have experienced a fate worse than death, worse even than a Dementor's Kiss. Society exists not just in the humanity that inhabits it, but also in the memories of the events of the past, and recognition of the possibilities of the future. History is cyclical. What you've done... it's fundamentally inappropriate, irresponsible, and it subverts the axioms of magic itself! One of the greatest wizards to ever live —simply gone. Expunged. No one knows who he was. No one even knows his name."

"What do you expect me to say, Indigo?" the other wizard shot back. "Even if I did agree with you, I can't change any of this. I'm sorry."

Several minutes of silence passed, during which Indigo 9733 idly traced invisible characters on the cold, stone table in front of him. Eventually, when the prisoner seemed satisfied with his imperceptible artwork, he looked back up to the man across from him.

"Would you like to hear something interesting?"

"If you wish," the Unspeakable said evenly.

"You're familiar with the ritual, of course, but I don't think you know much about the protocol governing its usage. I'd like to share it with you. Erasure Totus requires two Praesix to perform the ritual. One acts as a focus for the energy required, while the other directs the actual flow of the magic. Once the ritual is complete, those two Praesix guards are the only people in the world who know the secret: the existence of the person that was just erased. And whoever they tell, I suppose. To prevent accidental disclosure, the Praesix are Obliviated immediately after performing the ritual. After all, two can keep a secret if neither remembers it.

"So?"

"Do you know what I find particularly fascinating? There are  _ three _ people alive who know the truth about Albus Dumbledore... and I think you can name two of them."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing," said Indigo with a grim expression. "It's simply something I find interesting."

"If you know so much, tell me, how did Mr Dumbledore die?"

Indigo sighed. "I don't know. Whether it was a raid by the Ministry, or simply a broken heart at the loss of Hogwarts, he didn't say."

"'He'? Who? Robbins?"

Indigo shook his head sadly. "I'd like to think that he went out in a blaze of glory, single-handedly fighting a hundred Aurors. After all, this is Albus Dumbledore we're talking about. Then again, I suppose it shouldn't matter. In a way, he's not really gone. After all, for better or for worse, death is not an escape from life.

"Are you suggesting you believe in an afterlife?"

"I believe that when one door closes, another always opens. Death is merely one of those doors."


	11. Proliferation

His arms strained, fingers ached under the weight of the shoddy wooden box he was carrying. Three months ago he would have saved himself the trouble by charming it feather-light and shrinking it, but he had learned his painful, and expensive, lesson after the first time. Potions ingredients were quite sensitive to magic, so he would just have to do it the Muggle way, thank you very much.

Not that he had any issues with doing things the Muggle way. After all, his best friend had even married a Muggle-born! Lily Evans, now Potter: one of the kindest, warmest people he had ever had the pleasure of knowing. And then, as if part of a stereotyped back-story of a cheap fiction novel, tragedy struck. James and Lily, murdered in cold blood, leaving a one-year-old boy behind —an orphan.

What a beautiful boy he was. Harry Potter, Saviour of the World, the Boy-Who-Lived, and so on. That's what everyone called him. But to him, he was just... Harry, James' and Lily's son. Through their seven years at Hogwarts, Harry and Ron and Hermione had gotten into more than their fair share of hijinks and shenanigans, but much like the self-proclaimed Marauders, they also nurtured a strong friendship, a bond inseparable by anything that could come their way —drama; tragedy; the general obstacles of life. Death.

No, not even death. He was sure of it. There would always be disagreements, and petty rows, and months-long fights. But in the end, what Harry, Ron, and Hermione had built up would never be torn asunder, no matter what the world threw at them.

Even when the world threw Voldemort himself into the mix, Harry had held his ground; fought back with a scary passion. His friends enabled him, but also anchored him to reality. And after seven long years of fighting, they had emerged victorious. Some might have called it a loss, or perhaps a draw. After all, both Voldemort and Harry died that fateful morning, but the difference was very clear: Voldemort had been killed, but Harry had sacrificed himself for the world. That right there would make it forever clear just which side had truly won.

Despite the exultant end of a rule by a dangerous wizard, and the heartbreaking loss of a boy he thought of as a godson, the world had moved on. It had to. So now, some three months later, found Remus Lupin hurrying down Knockturn Alley, box of illicit potions ingredients in tow.

That's what he was now. A potions smuggler. Oh, what James and Sirius would say if they saw him now. But it wasn't like there were many options left. The Ministry was trying to round up the werewolves. The Order had all but disbanded. Hogwarts was compromised. And he had a pack of other werewolves —miscreants, outcasts, but people all the same—to care for.

As he hustled down the dim, cobblestone path, he kept a wary eye on his surroundings. Despite the cramped street, ramshackle storefronts, and creepy populace, he was relatively comfortable navigating Knockturn Alley. One just had to know what should be avoided, and what could be safely ignored. 

Further down the street, he saw some flashes and sparkles of light. Likely a rowdy patron of The White Wyvern, drunkenly celebrating something probably not deserving of celebration. Safe to ignore.

A toothless hag stumbled toward him, holding aloft a shining crystal ball. Best to avoid.

Remus weaved his way down the street, expertly dodging the things that should be dodged. Almost there.

"Ow!" He sucked in a breath, tucking his box against his hip and taking a hand to scrub at his face. When he pulled his hand away, he squinted at what had rubbed off onto his gloved fingertip. It was powdered silver.

Clearly he had not dodged all the things that needed to be dodged.

"You there."

He looked up into the thin, rather ugly face of an Auror.

"You're a werewolf, aren't you?" the man asked.

Remus didn't immediately respond. He was calculating his options. He knew full well he couldn't out-draw the Auror, especially not with a box of volatile potions ingredients tucked against his wand pocket.

"You're safe. I'm here to help you. The Ministry has authorised housing for your kind."

"No, thank you."

"I know times are getting tough, and it isn't safe on the streets. We're offering lodging, meals, and even monthly Wolfsbane to qualified residents," the Auror said evenly. "What's your name?"

"Remus," he responded with gritted teeth.

"Remus. I can assure you that you'll be warm, comfortable, and well taken care of at Tower Ivory."

"Measure B? I read the news. Thanks, but no thanks. I'll be on my way."

The Auror pursed his lips and tightened his grip on his wand. "I really must insist. I'm afraid that you may otherwise find yourself in some, hmm... unsolicited trouble." He stepped forward until he was a mere arm's length away, blocking the path ahead. "And neither of us would want that, would we?"

" _ Get of my way _ ," Remus hissed, blood pounding in his ears. When the Auror didn't move, he snarled and shoved past him.

"How dare you assault a Ministry official!" the Auror shouted at his back.

It was only his werewolf instincts that prevented him from being sliced to shreds. He dropped the box of potions ingredients and dove to the side, drawing his wand in time to erect a shield that blocked the second hex that was already on its way. 

A short but fierce fight followed. The Auror didn't let up, throwing a deluge of spells across the alley, some minor but others downright nasty. Remus had never been a notably strong duellist, though he did have werewolf blood running through his veins, granting him heightened senses and faster-than-average reflexes. Unfortunately for him, that was still no match for a fully trained Senior Auror. After dodging a particularly vile jinx that melted the brick wall behind him, Remus twisted around just in time to hear his opponent utter the most Unforgivable of curses.

As the green cone of light raced toward him, Remus Lupin imagined himself taking a deep breath and then releasing it. He would not survive this war, but he had done his part. No longer would he be forced to live in the shadows, hiding from his government; an undesirable, an enemy of the state, struggling just to find food to eat.

No. He was being offered an escape. No longer bound by the shackles of life. 

He was free.

#

Damp silence blanketed the room, a rather unusual phenomenon in this establishment, even considering its typical population at this time of day. It didn't seem to bother the large wizard who sat —or rather, slouched—in one of the decades-old chairs inhabiting the pub.

The man wasn't currently moving, though he did have one hand wrapped around a large pewter stein that had long since lost its colour and decor, having been whittled down by thousands upon thousands of pints of Firewhiskey. The other arm rested on his leg, which tapped a slow rhythm against the unreasonably grimy floor. He didn't move, instead opting to stare into space —but not blindly, no: patiently, almost expectantly.

Today was the day that a man would pay for his deeds, and misdeeds. A day where a man's past would catch up to him.

With a belaboured groan, the door at the opposite end of the small pub eased open, admitting a regal, older wizard whose face seemed to be set in a perpetual scowl. Just behind him were two unfamiliar wizards, clearly Aurors given the crimson robes they wore. Alabaster white sashes adorned the Aurors' waists, though their leader instead sported one of royal purple.

After pausing a moment to let their eyes adjust to the unnatural darkness, the trio located their quarry and unhurriedly approached the far corner of the pub.

"Director," said the wizard from his chair. "I can't say I'm surprised to see you here."

"You know, Kingsley, it's a sign of respect to rise and salute your superior."

The two sidekick Aurors snickered.

"We're a bit past that point, aren't we?" asked Shacklebolt. Firm, but not uncivil.

Augustus Rookwood chuckled, allowing a small trickle of mirth to reach his eyes. "Always a man of principle —through and through. I suppose we can dispense with the pleasantries."

Rookwood reached into his coat pocket to withdraw a scroll, rolled up and sealed with a black ribbon. "You should thank me for doing this by the book." He offered the scroll to Kingsley, who momentarily relinquished a hold of his mug to dismissively wave him off.

"Very well." The Director of the DMLE slit the ribbon, unrolled the parchment, and began to read. "Kingsley Roman Shacklebolt has been identified as a wilful participant of an illegal organisation, code name 'Order of the Phoenix', and as such, is in direct violation of Ministry Edict 161. By order of the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Roman Shacklebolt is hereby stripped of his position of Senior Auror, and is to be detained immediately." He rolled up the scroll and threw it on the table in front of him. "Between you and me... I always suspected you. I just  _ knew _ you were part of the infamous-yet-elusive Order of the Phoenix, but, sadly, I could never prove it. There was always... something. A cold trail. A misfiled evidence report. But no matter."

"You always did think yourself the greatest detective, didn't you?" asked Shacklebolt, before belting out a laugh and bringing the drink to his lips.

"Watch your tongue, boy!" Rookwood snapped. "The great Auror Shacklebolt. So  _ strong _ , and  _ courageous _ , and  _ fearless _ ," he mocked. "It's gone to your head. You've outgrown yourself, clearly. Drinking yourself away in Hogsmeade —"

Kingsley snorted.

"Despite your attitude, I'm feeling... generous. I'd like to make a deal, Kingsley."

"Is that so?" he slurred.

"Who is the leader of the Order of the Phoenix?"

"I don't know."

"I'll go easy on you. I'll put in a good word for you with Cornelius," Rookwood drawled with an insincere smile. "You wouldn't have to spend the rest of your life in Tower Indigo, no... In fact, I might just get a little careless, my wand slips out of my hand, like so —you incapacitate the guards, flee the country, hie to Colombia..." He shrugged nonchalantly. "Who is it?"

"As I said —I don't know."

"Cut the dung, Shacklebolt," the director hissed, leaning down so that they were face-to-face.

A coy smile escaped Kingsley's lips. "And even if I did know... I promise that you would be the last person I'd tell."

"I would tread  _ very _ carefully, if I were you."

For the first time that morning, the wizard's foot stopped tapping against the floor. "Are you threatening me? Really? Have some common sense. You're in no position to be making threats, Augustus. Even with these two rookies you've brought along as bodyguards."

"Arrogant to a fault, you always were," said Rookwood with a scowl. "They're not here to protect me. They're here to learn. Besides, I have this place surrounded. One false move and... It won't be pretty for you. Now, I've been patient. I've been generous. I've been civil. I will ask one more time.  _ Who is the leader of the Order of the Phoenix? _ "

Kingsley continued to stare straight ahead, not bothering to dignify the question with another response that would be summarily ignored.

Augustus Rookwood sighed, absently rubbing his forearm. "What happened to you? A traitor to your country, that's what you are, and that's the only thing you'll ever be known as. All born out of a misinterpreted dream, a specious rebellion, and a selfish desire to be the centre of attention. What a shame. You were one of the best."

"I  _ am _ one of the best, Augustus. It's not arrogance —it's the ability to look at a situation with clarity and objectivity, something you obviously lack. Your Auror force has spiralled out, clearly, seeing as you've brought, what, twenty Aurors just to take me down?"

"It won't have to come to that, Kingsley," Rookwood said with a fake smile. "Do you know how I know that? Look around. Civilians everywhere."

The man did appear to be right. The pub was more crowded than usual, with nearly half of the creaky, rickety tables occupied with patrons of various ilk, who, for their part, seemed to be completely ignoring the altercation taking place in the back corner. No matter.

"I know you're a man of honour, and a man of principal. And I also know that you would never instigate a ruckus —one with such potential for undesired  _ casualties _ —in such a crowded area."

Kingsley sighed and closed his eyes, taking a moment to think. He began to silently drum his fingers on the table, and eventually opened his eyes. "You" —he pointed to the Auror on the right—"what's your name?"

"My name is of no concern to you,  _ civilian _ ," the Auror sneered. "Now surrender yourself at once."

Once more, Kingsley smiled. "It's as I thought. Well, lads, before I go out, I'd like to offer some words of wisdom. On-the-job training, as it were." He pulled himself out of his slouch and then leaned forward.

"First: Always assume your opponent has a wand pointed at you. And second: Never drink on the job."

In one fluid motion, Kingsley tossed the contents of his mug at the boy on the right and unleashed a ferocious Slashing Hex from his wand hidden under the table. The unwilling recipient of the Vertic Acid screamed and clawed at his face as his skin and bones literally dissolved; he would be dead within seconds. The other Auror, the girl, didn't scream at all. She had been killed instantly by the Slashing Hex that had separated her head from the rest of her body.

Rookwood and Kingsley were already engaged in a wand fight that had seen less than two seconds but more than a dozen spells cast. There was a reason that Rookwood had been named Director, and it wasn't because he was good at music. However, Kingsley was simply unrivalled in his ability with a wand. Rookwood's only saving grace in this fight would be the Auror squadron that would barge in within the next second. 

By the time the Aurors pulverised the walls of the pub and charged inside, Rookwood was already sporting a missing arm, a half-row of shattered teeth, and a lattice of deep cuts across his abdomen and legs.

"Kill everyone!" the director shouted, stumbling backward as another Auror jumped in front of him.

A cacophony of incantations filled the room as the Aurors made to dispose of the pub's occupants; but as curses of various shapes and colours impacted with their targets, each wizard in turn flickered and vanished —illusions. 

With a primal roar, Rookwood launched a Killing Curse at Shacklebolt, who dove behind an overturned table for protection. The other Aurors were quick to follow the director's lead, turning their attention to the once-esteemed Auror.

As the fight escalated, Kingsley was absolutely in his element. This was why he had originally become an Auror: not to patrol the streets, or to do paperwork —but to fight. The blue, green, and red spells sailing around him didn't evoke confusion or distract him, no. Instead, they brought clarity, heightened focus. His aim was impeccable, determination unmatched. Hexes left his wand faster than he could incant them; Aurors fell left and right as they made the mistake of getting too close. Alastor would have been proud.

Despite his skill, despite his alacrity, it was a losing battle. He knew that. He had known it since he had woken up this morning. But today, it wasn't about winning. It wasn't about surviving. It was about fighting the good fight.

As the six remaining Aurors cast the final wave of spells in unison, Kingsley allowed himself a small smile.

He had fought the good fight.

#

The whole idea of birthday gifts should have been, in his opinion, canned. Really, how was one supposed to know what to get someone to celebrate the fact that they'd been alive for nineteen years? Surely some clever shopkeeper in the 1400s had dreamt up the scam to pocket a few extra Galleons. It was ridiculous.

He had never been good at this, anyway. Surely she could just tell him what a good birthday gift would be, and save him the trouble of aimlessly perusing Hogsmeade like a pissed Demiguise.

Ezra's musings were cut short by a cluster of small explosions from outside. With an uttered oath, he dashed out of Dervish and Banges just in time to see the walls of the Hog's Head crumble and a squadron of Aurors rush in, wands blazing.

A circus of curses, wails, and myriad flashes of light quickly filled the once-disreputable but now-devastated pub. Ezra sprinted toward the building, already knowing that whatever it was, he would arrive too late.

Just as he charged through the door, a smattering of  _ CRACK _ s signalled the departure of the Aurors. Or, at least, what had been left of the Aurors. Some ten or twelve crimson-robed bodies littered the floor, in various states of disfigurement —but all equally dead . Upturned tables and shattered bottles were strewn about the room. Several piles of ashes —burnt timber, charred wood—smoldered. All testament to the swift but destructive battle that had taken place here moments prior. 

Another body caught his eye, this one partially covered by rubble. The wizard also sported traditional Auror's robes, but he was missing the radiant white sash so proudly worn by the others. Ezra skidded to a halt in front of the man and dropped to his knees, ignoring the shards of glass blanketing the ground beneath him.

"Kingsley." He shook the older man. "Kingsley —wake up!"

He didn't move.

"Shack! Get up!  _ Shack! _ " Hot tears, traitorous tears, began to well in his eyes. Blurring his vision. Dissolving his focus. "Wake UP, Kingsley!"

No, no... Not him too.

Ezra barely registered the weight of a soft hand on his shoulder.

"Lad... he's gone."

"No!" he screamed. He took his wand and cast a long series of healing spells. None took effect. 

The tears were storming down his cheeks; some falling, others amassing by his chin.

"WAKE  _ UP _ !"

"Son, he's gone. I'm sorry."

A strong pair of arms pulled him to his feet and away from Kingsley's body.

"Leave off!" Ezra snarled. He whipped around, coming face-to-face with an older gentleman —the one that had been talking to him. But the man wasn't alone. A small crowd had gathered in the pub, slowly picking through the rubble, studiously ignoring the bodies—and trying not to pay attention to the ruckus in the corner.

Leave. He had to leave. He had to get out of here before he was recognised.

But... it was Kingsley. He looked back down at the body, and his breath hitched. He knew the answer.

"He's..." 

But he couldn't even say it. Instead, Ezra pushed past the old man, dashed outside, and Disapparated in a blinding flash of light.

When Ezra arrived in the dense forest, the whiplash of magical energy he emitted instantly conflagrated the nearby trees. The flames rapidly climbed, roared with energy, magic —destruction.

"Yeah?" he shouted to no one in particular. "How's it feel!?"

But it wasn't enough. Ezra waved his wand in a circle above his head and shouted, " _ Integer Inflammare _ !"

A magnificent wall of fire emerged from his wand, blanketing the entire line of trees around him. The ambient temperature swiftly rose as the unnatural inferno consumed everything it touched: trees, animals, oxygen. The heat seared Ezra's robes, melted the soles of his boots, and instantly evaporated his tears. 

A muted  _ crack!  _ signalled another Apparition.

"What the hell is going on?!" Robbins screamed over the raging blaze.

"Shove off, Robbins!"

"You're going to get yourself killed!"

"Oh yeah? Then get out —" But he was overcome by a fit of coughs.

"I don't know what in the fuck you're doing" —Robbins paused to avail himself of the rapidly-dwindling air supply—"but this seems pretty stupid to me!"

"Fuck... off..." Ezra gasped.

"Not a chance," the Scot sputtered. "If you want to kill yourself in your idiocy, fine. But you'll have to take me with you!" With that, Robbins collapsed into a coughing fit and then slowly sunk to the ground.

As the flames roared higher and higher around them, Ezra struggled to find any oxygen left to breathe. He was weakening. He couldn't stand. He dropped to his knees, struggling to maintain the spell.

Why should he live and not Kingsley? And Lupin. Dumbledore. They hadn't been afforded the opportunity. He didn't deserve any better than them. It was a pointless war. What purpose was it to live now, when they would all certainly be dead in a month anyway?

It was a farce.

His eyes fell to the wizard on the ground beside him. Robbins. A boy with whom he had bonded in their short time at Aurum Vale. A boy who had unequivocally allied himself to the cause. A boy who had risked everything just for the slim chance to make things right.

Ezra closed his eyes and allowed the wand to fall from his hand.

The magically-fuelled blaze ceased, leaving behind only natural flames which, though destructive in their own right, were nothing compared to the inferno that had ravished the forest moments earlier.

Ezra gulped in large breaths of sweet, oxygen-filled air, and he lay there with eyes closed on the cracked and dessicated ground. Eventually he heard Robbins' breathing ease as his oxygen intake stabilised.

Though the smoke had thinned, the silence was thick as the errant flames dwindled.

Robbins was waiting.

"Albus Dumbledore," the Slytherin finally whispered into the darkness, as if afraid that being too loud would stoke the flames. "The greatest wizard of our time. Maybe his past caught up to him. He was growing old; he slipped up. He accepted death as the next great adventure.

"Then, it was Lupin. Evading the Ministry one way or another for, what, twenty years? He never claimed to be a fighter. But if anyone could hold his own in a duel —surely a werewolf could. I dunno. Maybe one of the other werewolves snitched.

"And now, Shacklebolt? Kingsley Shacklebolt?" Ezra scrubbed fiercely at his eyes. "Best Auror the Ministry's seen since —okay, besides Moody, fine. There is simply no excuse. What the hell was he doing?!"

The boy jerked himself upright and angrily brushed soot from his robes.

"They were supposed to be the best, Taran. The  _ best _ ! And look where it got them."

"Ezra —"

"Look how they ended up, and tell me we're not going down the same road. And if they couldn't do it —how the fuck are  _ we _ supposed to do a bloody thing?"

"You're giving up, then?" Robbins sneered. "And all that at Aurum Vale —just empty rhetoric, yea?"

"I... things have changed —"

" _ How _ have things changed?" the Scot snapped back. "Things are exactly the same as they were last week, a month ago, a year ago. The circumstances have changed, aye, the laws have changed... but that's it."

"And you just expect us to forget about them and move on," Ezra said coldly.

"No! Dumbledore, Kingsley, Lupin... They were courageous, incredible wizards; core players in the resistance against Voldemort. But more importantly, they did what they could, and they fought for what they believed in. We should  _ strive _ to be like them, Rowe! Did you really come up with this whole plan thinking it would be easy, or safe, or that you would even survive?"

" _ I don't CARE if I survive! _ " Ezra shouted. "This has  _ never _ been about me. They killed my friends, and God knows they'll kill what few are left! Do you have any idea what it's like?!"

Robbins sucked in a breath, and Ezra immediately paled.

"Shit, Taran, I'm sorry..." he muttered. "I'm not sure what I was thinking."

"Don't worry about it. It's alright."

"It really isn't. I'm a huge arse. You can say it."

"Well..." said Robbins, noncommittally. "Okay, you're being a bit of an arse."

A heavy silence, unnaturally stale as a result of the recent fire that had rampaged through the forest, settled onto the two boys as one tried to verbalise his thoughts and the other patiently waited.

"A month ago, I didn't know who I could trust. When we talked at training, I thought that we had to do this alone. I thought we  _ could _ do it alone. But we can't. We need more wands in this fight."

"What about your friends from Hogwarts? And Granger's friends?"

Ezra ran his hand through his ash-laden hair. "Everyone has something they're willing to fight for, but not everything has people willing to fight for it. They... they're not bad people, but complacency is always the easiest choice. I don't blame them. Why rock the boat if you don't have to?" A few branches cracked as Ezra readjusted himself to face Robbins. "We need something more organised. We need help. Hermione's been working on something —I think Luna's involved—though she's been tight-lipped about it. But... it's not enough."

"I'm sorry, mate," Robbins said despondently, "all of my family friends are just that:  _ family _ friends. They'd sooner kill me than listen to me."

"Figured as much. I might know a few people. I'll talk to Hermione; she's usually good at this type of stuff."

The conversation dwindled, and eventually, Robbins pulled himself off the ground, muttered a charm to clean the soot from his robes, and fixed Ezra with a pensive stare. Finally, he heaved a sigh and stuck his hand out to Ezra, pulling the boy to his feet.

"Where are we, anyway?"

"Near Father's house," Ezra responded with a small frown. "Actually, we're near the wards. Probably best to Apparate a bit further out."

The two boys began a slow trek east. As they moved deeper into the woods, the trees grew more dense, lush, and generally healthy. The fire hadn't reached this far out, as too evidenced by the steadily increasing volume and frequency of bird calls.

Something had been gnawing at Ezra's mind during the walk. "By the way... how is she doing? And Ron —Weasley?" Given the state of his relationships with both Pilkington and Weasley, he had asked Robbins to keep an eye on them in his stead.

"Umm..." Robbins fixed him with a penetrating stare, before tripping over a small log that wound up in his path. "Pilkington seems fine, I suppose. Whenever I say something to her, she just glares at me and walks away. Oh, she slapped me once. I'm starting to think that's normal for her. I dunno. Why in the hell am I stalking her, again? I can understand Weasley, but —you slept with her, didn't you?"

"What? Merlin, no," Ezra said, pulling a face. "She's —it's a long story. I'm sorry."

"Hmph. The things I do for you."

"You know I appreciate it."

"You better. I think Weasley's doing alright. We struck up a conversation the other day. Apparently the dolt is a Cannons fan" —Ezra snorted—"but no matter. You know, he's one of the better Aurors in our group."

"Oh?"

"Aye. But Langley's still a complete arsehole to him," said Robbins with no little distaste. "You know how the commander is. Hughes, Appleby, the twins —whisper in his ear, sucking him off. He sees what they want him to see. And you know how Weasley was at training."

Ezra nodded begrudgingly.

"I doubt they'll ever let it go. But, what can you do?"

"Thanks for keeping an eye out, Taran. You know it means a lot to me."

"I know."

Eventually, they reached a portion of the forest that was, frankly, indistinguishable from the rest of the forest. However, it apparently meant something to Ezra, who brought them to a halt. "We can Apparate from here. I'll see you soon, yeah?"

"Hey," said Robbins before the other boy could Disapparate. "You gonna be okay, Rowe?"

The Slytherin exhaled and gave a sad smile. "No. But, really, is anyone?"

#

The pair of wizards appeared in a tangled flurry of limbs and robes. Really, it was Ezra's fault; when the Portkey deposited them on the bleak, wind-torn flats of Merlin-knows-where, he had immediately tripped and brought both himself and Robbins careening to the ground. His disgruntled oath couldn't be heard over the cries of the wind, but it was no doubt something his mother would strongly disapprove of.

Their destination was, thankfully, close. A decrepit, albeit large, warehouse stood strong in the fields, a bastion against the relentless gusts that rendered the environs completely uninhabitable. 

Ezra didn't bother speaking, or even yelling. It was no use. Instead, he yanked at Taran's robe to gain the boy's attention, and pointed toward the rather conspicuous building.

_ Obviously _ , Ezra imagined Taran saying. The body language was clear enough.

The wind screamed in his ears as he fought his way toward the warehouse. He was bent over, nearly horizontal as he struggled, foot after foot, against roaring gusts that threatened to quite literally blow him away. Surely his hair would never lie flat again.

After a short eternity, they reached the southern wall of the building —and more importantly, the door. Of particular interest was the wooden bar fastened to the door by a single pin and latched into an iron glove secured to the wall. Ezra gritted his teeth and heaved the bar out of its resting position, rotating it until it was free of the glove.

He immediately understood the purpose of the bar, as the door swung inward as if shot from a cannon, with Ezra and Robbins following thus —

"The door —"

"Get the door!"

" —what in Merlin's—"

" —Aurors!"

" _ Stupefy _ !"

To his credit, Robbins was more prepared than Ezra at that moment, jumping in front of the Slytherin to cast a sloppy Shield Charm that would certainly not win any awards, but it was good enough to mitigate the average Stunner. 

This Stunner, however, was not average. Its owner had once been a fully-decorated Auror, and it ripped through Robbins' shield, knocking him back against the door that someone had magically shut. 

"Wait!" Ezra yelled, ducking as a Disarming Jinx emerged from the darkness and sailed just over him. Two more jinxes sailed true, but he finally was able to untangle himself and draw his wand just in time to deflect them. Nevertheless, he had started this fight on his back foot and there was no recovering from that.

He scoffed as he heard the distinct incantation of a Suppression Charm, whipping his wand up —

"Stop!" shouted a familiar voice through the darkness.

—changing his mind at the last millisecond, he absorbed the charm into his wand and dove to the side, hissing as he landed painfully on his shoulder.

"Mr Rowe?"

The movement on the other side of the room ceased.

"McGonagall?" asked Ezra hesitantly.

"Ezra Rowe?" the other voice said slowly. "You're Ezra Rowe?"

"What the bloody hell, Tonks?" he snapped. He heard Robbins rousing behind him, but ignored it for now. "Not exactly a warm welcome..."

"Hermione didn't mention you were an Auror..." Tonks sounded suitably abashed.

"No, I suppose she didn't," he scowled. His eyes were finally becoming accustomed to the dimness, and he could just make out two witches across the room; one still crouched in a battle stance, and the other primly getting to her feet. A shuffling rose from the far corner, and he turned to see two more silhouettes emerge from behind some metal shelves that appeared to be on their last legs.

"I must admit," the headmistress said, lighting her wand, "I did not imagine you as an Auror."

"Nor did I," he said shortly.

"Who is this?" McGonagall gestured behind Ezra.

"This is Robbins. I can vouch for him."

"Hi," the rugged boy said simply, his Scottish burr heavier than normal. Likely still a bit disoriented.

Upon hearing this, McGonagall's stiff posture seemed to ease a bit.

"These are my parents," Tonks eventually said, breaking the thick silence. She gestured toward the man and woman who still hadn't uttered a word. "Andromeda and Ted Tonks." A smattering of half-hearted greetings followed.

All of a sudden, the south door once again slammed open, and Ezra reflexively raised his wand in a defensive posture.

_ Thud _ .  _ Thud _ .  _ Thud _ . Every other step the entrant made was accompanied by a dull thud that reverberated through the floor of the entire warehouse, even in spite of the howling winds that might have threatened to drown out the sound. As if concerned about the background noise upstaging his entrance, the wizard flicked his wand behind him, shutting the door once again.

"Alastor," said McGonagall, her voice uncharacteristically emotional, "It's good to see you again."

"Minerva," Mad-Eye growled, giving her a brief nod. His eye —the normal one—darted around the room, seeking traps, enemy combatants, and other unknowable sources of danger. His magical eye, however, quickly found Ezra and focused on him, unmoving and unblinking. "And Mr Rowe."

"Professor," he responded simply.

Moody just grunted.

"That's the famous Mad-Eye Moody?" Robbins whispered when the buzz of conversations resumed and the old wizard joined Tonks' and McGonagall's hushed discussion.

"Aye, what do you think?"

"He's... A lot like I imagined, actually."

"Huh. I'm not sure if I should be impressed, or disturbed," Ezra said with an imperceptible frown.

"Why not both?"

"I suppose."

Their short dialogue halted when the warehouse door opened and shut a final time, admitting two witches bundled up in more layers of cloth than seemed possible.

"Didn't you say this was in Ellsworth Mountains?" Hermione exclaimed, voice entirely muffled by a large, red and gold scarf that the witch was valiantly trying to disentangle from her body.

"You remember what I said," responded Luna with no small amount of affection. Apparently she'd had no trouble disposing of her own winter garb. "You're so sweet."

Ted Tonks spluttered. "The Ellsworth —where in heavens are we?"

"Who's to say where we are and aren't?" Luna closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. "But definitely not the Ellsworth Mountains. There would be far more whales, obviously."

"Luna, I don't think —"

"Wotcher, Luna!"

"Hi, Ms Tonks."

"Ugh, please don't," said Tonks, pulling a face. "You make me sound ancient. Like Mum" —she stuck her tongue out at Andromeda, who rolled her eyes.

Ezra tried not to stare as Hermione pulled her hair, now rather frizzy, into a loose ponytail. When his friend turned and caught his eye, he ducked and then mouthed  _ 'Hi' _ to her. She waved back and grinned, cheeks pink from the cold.

Shortly after, the girls went to take their place in the circle, but as Luna Lovegood was passing Ezra by, she loitered for a spell, then stood tip-toe and whispered in his ear. The boy's face turned red —a stark contrast to his usual demeanour. Gently, she stroked a lock of his brilliant white hair from aside his temple, then allowed it to slide through her fingers as she gazed at it reverently—until the last of it slipped from her hand. With a parting smile, she sauntered off to join Tonks.

Hermione glowered at them both.

McGonagall cleared her throat. "Yes, alright. Miss Granger —it's a pleasure to see you, alive and well. I trust you've found a safe place to stay?"

"Thank you, Headmistress," Hermione responded rather slowly, as if trying to clear her head from the scene she'd just witnessed. "It's nice to see you, too. Yes, I've been staying —"

"Hermione," said Ezra, softly but clearly. Their eyes met for a brief second.

McGonagall stared at Ezra. Not with hostility, but rather curiosity mixed with a pinch of suspicion.

Ezra felt several pairs of eyes on him.

It was rather uncomfortable.

"Well, get on with it, then," Mad-Eye said gruffly, apparently unaware of the tension in the room —or impervious to it.

Hermione flushed. "Right, then... Um, thank you for coming. It means a lot to me. To us. I'm sure you can guess why we're here. Most of you were in the Order." Her voice grew more confident as she transitioned into a more comfortable lecturing cadence. "When Voldemort fell, I hoped that the world would somehow right itself. We all hoped for it. But I think, deep down, we knew that it wouldn't."

McGonagall huffed.

"So many of our friends are... gone," Hermione sniffed. "Loyalties exposed. Arrested. Killed. Fled the country. Or simply can't be trusted. To be perfectly honest, I didn't know if I could trust any of you."

Ted Tonks looked aghast. Moody simply looked smug.

"But a couple days ago, Ezra told me in no uncertain terms that what we were doing wasn't enough. We needed help. We  _ need _ help. I know it's not much" —at this, she gestured around the grubby room—"and there are only a few of us. But it will have to do."

"If you don't mind my asking, what  _ have _ you been working on?" asked Andromeda, curiosity filling her voice.

"I'd —rather not say, Mrs Tonks. I'm sorry."

"You still don't trust us," Ted said, visibly disappointed.

"Of course she doesn't; smart girl," Moody interjected. He tapped his magical eye as if to make a point. "Don't need one of these to see the danger in blindly trusting your peers. You best take a leaf from her book. Wars aren't lost from lack of firepower. They're lost by naivete and blind trust —treachery!"

"Thank you —"

" _ Constant vigilance! _ " he shouted, causing Ezra to jump and half-draw his wand.

"Yes... Thank you, Mr Moody," Hermione squeaked.

"Alastor is fine, Lass."

Ezra cleared his throat. Once again, all eyes turned to him. "But I can discuss what needs to be done. The Ministry's been passing new laws left and right, targeting Muggle-borns and Muggle sympathisers any way they know how. The Ministry cells have been filling up, and with Azkaban decimated, they haven't had a reliable place to put prisoners —until now. Construction of The Refuge is complete, so they've plenty of space.

Andromeda's eyebrows rose sharply. "I thought The Refuge was to be a haven for werewolves and —"

Robbins' sharp bark of laughter cut her short. "For werewolves, aye. Muggle-borns too. But a haven? Hardly," the Scot said. "It's a glorified prison. The upper floors are for prisoners, plain and simple."

Ezra continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "The DMLE has safe houses, makeshift prisons, spread out over the country. It's where they're keeping the detainees before they get around to relocating them to the towers."

Tonks nervously shifted her feet as the direction of the conversation became clear.

"I simply don't know what our long-term goals are, but in the meantime... We need to strike at the Ministry. Raid their safe houses, get those people out of the country."

"You've gone mad, haven't you?" Tonks asked, incredulous. "With, what, eight people? It's suicide —the Ministry will have their safe houses locked down tight."

"Eight? Probably closer to four," Ezra said flatly after a glance around the room. "And Robbins and I can't be involved. We're too close to the Aurors."

"You can't —?! Merlin, you  _ have _ gone mad."

He shook his head. "Most the Aurors have been pulled from guard duty anyway. Langley wants everyone on the streets and near towns."

"Arrogant son of a bitch, always was," Moody said with a snort.

"I'm sure that'll change once his holding cells start magically finding themselves empty," Ezra added. "But for now... it's something."

McGonagall spoke for the first time in several minutes. "Do you at least know where they are?" Her tone carried no audible sign of hesitation or disapproval; merely curiosity, and determination.

Hermione swivelled to stare at her favourite professor, and she opened her mouth to say something, but then eventually thought better of it and shut it thence.

"You think so little of me, Hermione?" the older woman asked with a stern gaze that was only softened by the undercurrent of amusement in her voice. "I  _ was _ a member of the Order of the Phoenix. And these... bastards have taken over my school. I have no qualms about repaying the favour." With a chuckle devoid of humour, she turned back to Ezra. "Well, Mr Rowe?"

"We know a couple. Well, Taran does," he added with a gesture toward the boy. "He gets all the fun assignments." Neither smiled.

"They're Apparition coordinates," Robbins clarified. "When I find out more, I'll get them to you lot." 

"I admire your... blind bravado," said Andromeda in a clipped tone, "but I'm not much of a duellist..."

_ We need fighters, not duellists! _ shouted a crass voice from Ezra's subconscious.

"...and I'm not sure how much I'll be able to contribute."

Ted nodded profusely, gripping his wife's hand. "And in case you haven't noticed, I'm a Muggle. To tell the truth, I'm not sure why I'm here in the first place."

"You're here because we want you here, Mr Tonks," Hermione said probably more sharply than intended. "Both of you. There's plenty to be done, and we're not going to turn away anyone who's willing to help. Now, are there any other questions?"

A brief lapse in conversation followed, only subtended by the howling winds that battered the walls of the warehouse they currently occupied.

Then, Tonks broke into a smile. "Just one. What shall we call ourselves?"

"No." Much to everyone's surprise, it was Luna that had responded. "Daddy always says names give power over things. But they also put a target on our backs."

"Lovegood is right," Mad-Eye said hesitantly, as if wary of the consequences of agreeing with her. "This ain't a school club or a rock band. No name, no signals, and most importantly —no uniforms."

#

Ezra gasped and his eyes shot open, frantically looking about the dark room for —something. He wasn't sure what, but something. It was a dream, right? Just another dream.

The room was eerily quiet; in fact, annoyingly so. The silence smothered him, causing a wailing in his ears that was only interrupted by the relentless pounding of his heart.

A film of sweat covered his skin, soaking through his pyjama bottoms and matting his hair. Nothing new for Ezra Rowe. He'd been having dreams of one sort or other for as long as he could remember. Rarely were they any good, and never were they beneficial for his sleep schedule.

He readjusted, trying to burrow himself further into the softness of the bed, but it was no use. The sheets were sweaty and gross anyway. He didn't need to turn his head to know the sun wasn't even up yet: if it were, he'd be able to see.

Resigned to a morning of disappointment, he swung out of bed, spelled his clothes and sheets dry, and slipped on a ratty old shirt.

It shouldn't have come as much of a surprise when he found her already awake, hunched over the small, crappy table in his kitchen. The lustrous blue tail of her quill danced as the girl hastily scrawled notes on some poor piece of parchment that had the misfortune of being subject to Hermione Granger's innumerable thoughts.

The only source of light in the room was a thin wax candle that floated mere inches above the parchment. And though the erratic movement of the Sapphire-feather quill caused it to shimmer magnificently in the candlelight, Ezra was instead drawn to the delicate wisps of hair, escapees from Hermione's ponytail that embodied a sort of chaos he found strangely comforting. A touch of irony —from a woman who prided herself on her stringent adherence to the rules, but who was also just mad enough to save them all.

Ezra swallowed, stamping down any errant thoughts. "You can light the others, you know."

To her credit, Hermione only jumped very slightly before turning toward Ezra. "I'm sorry, Ez, I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." He did not elaborate, but it was clear that she knew how to read through the lines. Thankfully, she didn't pursue the topic further.

"And sorry about the table. I'm sure I can find a desk for —"

"For the hundredth time, you don't have to apologise," Hermione said, exasperated. "You've let me crash here without a second thought. I should apologise for inconveniencing  _ you _ ."

"You're not an inconvenience —you've never been." Ezra ducked his head and stared at the floor.

Her expression softened.

After an awkward pause, he cleared his throat and went to prepare a cup of tea. As he poured the boiling water, his eyes settled on the piece of parchment that had tolerated Hermione's frantic scribbling. "What are you working on?"

"Hmm? Oh, it's nothing," she said dismissively.

"That looks like quite a lot of nothing to me."

"Really, it's nothing you'd be interested in," the girl squeaked. 

When Ezra continued to stare at her, she huffed. "If you must know... That absolute  _ hag _ of a woman stole from a very good friend of mine." She gave him a level stare. "Three thousand Galleons, Ezra.  _ Three thousand! _ "

Ezra furrowed his brow. "Please tell me you're not trying to get revenge. That's hardly worth your time, I'm sure."

"Excuse me?" Hermione said icily. "Who are you to say what is or isn't worth my time?"

"You know I didn't mean it like that. We've a lot going on, and Umbridge, no matter how much of a bitch she is" —"Ezra!"—"isn't worth your time, or your sanity."

"It's worth it to  _ me _ , so I'm doing it, and that's the end of discussion."

"Since when have you cared about money?!" Ezra nearly shouted. It was like arguing with a cauldron, for God's sake.

"Are you...? You're so..." Hermione spluttered. "It has nothing to do with the money! It's the principle of the thing. And damned if I let Umbridge walk all over me like that —all over  _ us _ !"

With a strangled groan, Ezra threw his hands in the air, defeated. "Fine. Fine. But please just be careful. She's..." He didn't know how to finish the sentence. "You have a plan, right?"

Hermione just looked at him.

"Right —of course you do." When she remained silent, he continued slowly. "But... you're not going to tell me, are you?"

After a moment, Hermione carefully put her quill down and stood up, pushing her chair in. She turned toward Ezra, crossing her arms and fixing him with another long stare.

"Ezra. I appreciate your looking out for me, I really do. But please let me do this, and try not to worry about me; you have enough things to worry about yourself. I know you have your share of secrets, little pieces of your plan you've kept from me" —he opened his mouth, but she waved him off—"and that's fine, I understand. But please  show me the courtesy of allowing me to do the same."

He closed his mouth and blinked several times. "Okay. Alright. I'm sorry."

The smallest of smiles graced Hermione's face, and she quickly gathered her things, among which was a folded piece of Muggle paper. "Also," she said, handing the paper to Ezra, "learn this, and then burn it."

Their eyes met for a moment, then she reached up and hugged him before darting out of the kitchen.

_ What the hell was that about? _ he wondered.

Carefully, almost gingerly, he unfolded the piece of paper. On it was written a long set of instructions, with several accompanying tables containing various letters, digits, and foreign symbols he had never seen before.

_ "It's a completely new alphabet," _ she had written.  _ "Use it when writing anything sensitive. I'm the only other person who knows about it." _

_ "I know it seems like overkill, but I'll take any edge we can get." _

#

In a scene disturbingly similar to one just a few weeks ago, Hermione found herself once again briskly making her way up Diagon Alley, deftly avoiding patrolling Aurors as best she could. Fortunately, the crowd was a bit more dense today than it had been last time, making it suitably easier to duck behind groups of passers-by when needed. On the other hand, this meant that more people were around to stare suspiciously as she went by, conspicuous as she was without the brown sash she was legally obliged to wear.

Her hand was stuffed deep into her pocket, grasping her wand tightly, as she darted to and fro on her way to Gringotts. This made her feel slightly better about her situation, but she recognised it was mostly a placebo effect; after all, she stood little chance against a horde of Aurors out in the open. 

This was surely the stupidest thing she had ever done, or even thought about doing —or, likely, would ever do in the future. If Ezra ever found out... well, she was sure it would come up in conversation eventually, but she just hoped that it was a long, long time from now. Despite this mental admission of wrongdoing, waves of guilt tugged mercilessly at her stomach as she hurried down the street; after all, Ezra worried enough about her as it was.

But this was something she had to do alone. He had his own things to worry about.

Much to her surprise, she reached the steps of the bank without incident. The ranks of infantry —all goblins, of course—stared at her suspiciously as she climbed the steps, but they didn't otherwise move, except one who decided that the blade of his axe wasn't sharp enough and so pulled out a whetstone to remedy that particular shortcoming.

"What is it?" asked the goblin as she approached his window. Thin, gold-rimmed glasses sat low on his crooked nose, and he seemed to be quite engrossed in the unintelligible legalese that covered the document in front of him.

"Stornak," she said, reading the nameplate perched on the counter next to the scales. "I have a —a proposition that I think you'd be interested in."

"Is that so?" The teller looked up from his riveting document. "Ah, the infamous Witch Granger." He grinned unpleasantly at the shocked look on her face. "Rumours abound of your tenacity, rebellious streak, and unfounded confidence in the face of adversity."

Hermione huffed and tapped her foot. "I need financial records for a... friend of mine."

"And why isn't this friend of yours here? Is she also a wanted criminal by her Ministry?" Stornak seemed to be enjoying himself. "I can't just give you someone else's records. We are very conscientious of the privacy of our clients."

"You misunderstand me, Goblin." She leaned in slightly and whispered, "I need you to...  _ create _ the records."

The armed guard behind Stornak shifted his weight, and his spear, but Hermione ignored him.

"How amusing. The rebellious, Muggle-born witch is asking me to commit fraud for her." Without warning, Stornak burst out laughing, a cacophonous mix of howls, snorts, and guffaws. "And why would I be interested in this... chicanery?"

"One hundred Galleons."

Stornak stared at her, and tilted his head. Then, he smiled. It was quite unbecoming. "And does Witch Granger have release from a pure-blood guardian to authorise this withdrawal?"

"What —what do you mean?"

"You are aware of the rules, I'm sure. Or perhaps not? Muggle-borns require a pure-blood to authorise withdrawal from their vaults," the teller said with no little disdain. "It's your Ministry's rule, not mine." He shrugged mockingly.

"Oh, stuff it," Hermione hissed. "You know I don't. I think you don't particularly care, either." At this, she cleared her throat and adopted a less caustic tone. "Listen, Mr Stornak. The money is for  _ you _ —not Gringotts. You can take it directly from my vault."

The goblin's beady eyes narrowed as he considered the offer. Hermione was relatively sure he would cave. If there was one thing she could trust, it was the power of a goblin's utter, unadulterated greed.

" _ Two _ hundred Galleons," he hissed back.

"Fine."

She handed the folded parchment over, and he snatched it eagerly from her hand. "Wait here."

The next twenty-five minutes passed agonisingly slowly. Every several seconds, she glanced around the lobby to verify that no one had recognised her and sent Ministry  _ intervention _ her way. The teller's guard remained at the window, staring intensely at her as if daring her to do something stupid like jump over the counter and start collecting Sickles.

As the minutes ticked by, Hermione grew more nervous. What was taking so long? On one hand, it probably wasn't easy to fabricate an entire history for an eighteen-year-old. On the other hand... it had been nearly half an hour! Had Stornak gone to the Head of the Bank? Or perhaps he had informed the Ministry and they were right now mobilising a squad of Aurors to take her away. What if he purposely misfiled the documents just to screw her? 

No, she told herself. Hateful, bigoted creatures the goblins were, but they were simply too proud of their work to intentionally sabotage it. That, she was sure of.

Finally, Stornak returned, stack of parchment in hand.

"Financial records for one... Janet Hunter," he said languidly, as if he hadn't just spent a half hour defrauding the Gringotts corporation as well as the Ministry of Magic. "Pleasure doing business with you."

Careful not to appear overeager, Hermione grabbed the documents and made a beeline for the exit, all too aware of the potential risk of Auror interference once she left Gringotts. As she descended the steps, she casually drifted toward an older man who was also leaving the bank, hoping to use him as camouflage if the need arose. The wizard, however, seemed to have trouble descending the steps, and finally tripped and fell.

"Sir!" Hermione said as she dropped down next to him, "Are you alright?"

"I sure am," he said with a loud chuckle, grabbing her arm with surprising strength and twisting it around behind her back. 

Hermione yelped and bit back tears as she felt her shoulder dislocate. "Let —let off!" she screamed.

A nearby family turned to look at the scene, but the matriarch ushered her kids along down the street.

By now, the assailant had grabbed Hermione's hair and pulled it back, forcing her head back and causing her to lose all range of motion in her neck and head. She could feel his left forearm against her back, and something sharp was poking against her shoulder blade —it felt like the edge of a wand holster. The man must have been an Auror.

"Let go of me!" she said through clenched teeth.

"Shut up, Mudblood," the Auror said, yanking on her hair and causing a whimper to escape. "Don't make this hard on yourself."

Soon they would be at the base of the steps, and the Auror would have free reign to do as he pleased. She had to do something, but there were no good options. Her right arm was locked behind her, her neck was effectively immobilised, and her left arm was free but the man was positioned outside of its striking range. And even if she could reach her wand, and cast a spell before the man reacted, she knew the goblins wouldn't look at all kindly on that course of action.

So, no good options. But there was a bad option. It would have to do.

Hermione gritted her teeth and picked up her legs, letting her weight drop. She screamed as her right shoulder was pulled even further out of its natural position, and she was barely able to arrest her fall with her free arm, but the ridiculous stunt did its job. The Auror lost his balance and fell forward, tripping over her and losing his hold on her.

"Fucking f —" the Auror yelled.

She quickly got to her feet, ignoring the searing pain in her shoulder and the tingling in her neck, and kicked the man as hard as possible in the groin. He yowled and turned to his side, blood streaming from his mouth where it looked like a few teeth had been knocked out.

"Fight me like a man, you bitch!" he shouted.

Hermione stared at him, frozen. She wanted to run, but for some reason her body refused. 

The Auror cackled and whipped his wand out. " _ Ossum Eff _ —"

Unfortunately, he had forgotten that wand usage on goblin-owned ground was strictly forbidden; it was the last mistake he ever made. The incantation was interrupted as the man's head rolled off of his neck, courtesy of a goblin's swift arm and sharp axe.

Several passers-by screamed as the disembodied head rolled down the remainder of the steps, coming to a stop on the grey cobblestone of Diagon Alley. A vivacious fountain of blood continued to squirt from the man's carotid artery for several seconds after the decapitation. Unfortunately for Hermione, a good amount of it landed on her.

She stumbled backward, fighting the overwhelming desire to dry-heave, and finally turned and ran.

#

"So, you founded the official resistance," said the Unspeakable Magus.

"Truthfully, it was all Hermione's doing."

"No, Indigo," he countered. "Miss Granger may have dotted the I's and crossed the T's, but you handed her the treatise."

Indigo waved him off with a noncommittal gesture. "Given Robbins' and my unique  _ status _ , we didn't have many promising contacts, so we were fortunate that Miss Granger had her own fair share."

"Besides him and Miss Granger, did you know any of the others present that evening?" The Magus had picked up his shoddy quill and dipped it in the ink jar, ready to resume writing.

"Well, obviously I had known Headmistress McGonagall from Hogwarts. Miss Lovegood, too. Hermione had told me about Tonks, but I knew nothing about her parents."

"And Mr Moody? He had been a professor, yes?"

"Not exactly," Indigo said as he adjusted himself in the uncomfortable chair. "A former Death Eater had impersonated Auror Moody for a year at Hogwarts —as Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts. That was before I'd arrived at Hogwarts, however."

"I see... So, how was it that —"

Just then, the steel door across from Indigo clicked, and both men turned their attention toward the source of the noise. The door eased open, admitting another Unspeakable who seemed to glide into the room. This one was dressed the same as the Magus, with his face similarly shrouded. Besides the fact that one of them was seated and the other was standing, Indigo would have been hard-pressed to tell them apart.

"Ah, excellent."

The recent entrant pulled three folders from the folds of his robes and handed them to the Magus, who placed them squarely on the table in front of him.

"Thank you, Eleven. That is all."

Once the other Unspeakable —Eleven—had vacated the room, the Magus picked up the first folder and flipped through it. After several minutes, he did the same with the second and third folders. Eventually, he turned his attention back to Indigo. 

"Miss Lovegood, Miss Tonks, Madam McGonagall." He held up the files in explanation. "Three members of your little group. Date of death: October 22, 1998. All three of them."

Indigo did not appear surprised.

"Were you aware, when you involved these people in your futile rebellion, that you would be sending them to their deaths?"

"Yes," Indigo said, face painted with an unreadable mask. "I knew it was a distinct possibility."

The Unspeakable steepled his fingers as if in thought. "You killed them, Indigo 9733. You saw yourself as the redeemer of the free world, but it wasn't so. You were a murderer, no better than the Ministry you vilified."

"No, Magus. Your Ministry killed to enslave its people. My friends died to liberate them."

"History is written by the victors," the Unspeakable added, sounding just a bit too smug. "Noble as martyrdom is, it's all for nought when there is no one left to bear the standard. You are the last one —and at daybreak, that banner will fall, forever lost in the depths of obscurity."

A short bark of laughter escaped Indigo, who shook his head derisively. "You measure success in a war by how many people are left, in a game of numbers and subjugation. But, the truth is that war has little to do with how many remain. War is only about proliferation of ideas.

"We didn't win the war because any of my friends survived. We won because our  _ ideas _ survived."


	12. Gift from Below

_ "Hermione," he whispered, "it's the only way." _

_ "The only _ _ —it's suicide!" _

_ "You think I don't know that?!" he snapped. "Besides, it's my decision _ _ —not yours." _

_ "You _ _ —I—" she started, but words seemed to fail her. At long last, she sobbed and ran to him, flinging her arms around his neck. _

_ "You know this is the only way," he murmured. _

_ She sniffled, but didn't dispute him; she only hugged him tighter. _

_ "I have to do this." _

_ It must have been ten or twenty minutes that they stood like that, her squeezing the life out of him as she sobbed into his neck. Finally, she loosened her grip and pulled back, staring into his eyes. _

_ "Just... Just promise me you won't tell anyone." _

_ "But _ _ —" _

_ "Promise me." _

Tears leaked from her eyes onto her pillow as she tried to scrub the contents of the dream from her brain. There was a time for reminiscing, and a time for reflection —neither of which was now.

With the stilted grace of a llama, Hermione rolled out of her bed; well, technically, Ezra's bed, though he hadn't slept in it since she had moved in. Despite her insistence otherwise, he had demanded she take over his bedroom while he relegated himself to the sofa.

What a sweet man.

Of course, the next morning, she had marched into his closet and transfigured it into a proper bedroom, much to Ezra's amusement. Still, he had insisted that she keep his room, and he would live in the transfigured closet.

Quietly, so as not to wake her flatmate, she conjured a large mirror and attached it to the wall. She turned her head this way and that, tugging her hair at various angles to appraise her options. Finally, she grabbed a lock of hair from above her ear, held it out parallel to the floor, and raised her wand.

She knew this was what needed to be done, but she still gulped.

It was only hair, right?

" _ Diffindo _ ," she whispered. The lock of hair fell to the ground.

Glamour charms couldn't be trusted for hair, after all. Something to do with the ratio of keratin.

_ The spell is cast _ , she thought, and then rolled her eyes at her own quip. Harry would appreciate that joke. It wasn't very good.

The remainder of her hair was cut relatively quickly. With a silent wave of her wand, the piles of hair at her feet vanished, and she set to work on her face. There'd be no need to go overboard; the majority of face recognition pivoted on the eyes and nose.

Carefully, so as not to accidentally blind herself, Hermione murmured a string of incantations that oh-so-gently moved the outer corners of her eyes downward and inward, giving the effect of slightly rotating her eyes.

Then, she moved her wand, pointing it directly at her left eye. Trying not to prematurely flinch, she flicked her wand and nearly jumped when she felt a small shock. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and blinked several times, trying to ignore the pulsing shapes and colours that overwhelmed half of her vision. Finally, she was able to look at herself in the mirror again.

As it had always been, her right iris was a medium shade of brown —almond, as her parents liked to call it. But her left iris was now a moderate green-hazel. She couldn't help but grin; though the heterochromia was more than a little bit disconcerting. Steeling herself once more, she repeated the process with her right eye.

Fortunately, the nose was much simpler to change. And less painful.

As the first rays of sunlight began to peek through the window, Hermione Granger —soon to be known as Janet Hunter—quickly finished dressing. Today would be a long day, no doubt, made only longer by the piece of cloth she held cautiously in her hands.

A green, silk sash.

Her mind wandered back to that fateful day. The day she had first learned about her magical abilities. She had magic flowing through her veins. She was a witch. Moreover, she was a witch born to  _ Muggles _ , non-magic folk. The word sounded demeaning, even though Professor McGonagall assured her it was a neutral term just like 'witch' or 'wizard'.

From that day, Hermione had decided that despite being a  _ Muggle-born _ , she would do her best to honour her heritage. She wouldn't shirk the baggage that the term carried, and she would set an example for other witches and wizards in her position. She would proudly carry the title of Muggle-born.

The green, silk sash.

It flew in the face of that promise. It stifled her freedom of expression —a freedom that had, ironically but not unsurprisingly, landed her in far more trouble than if she had simply repressed it. But, she decided, things had changed. This was no longer about her, or her family.

After all, there were some things more important than pride.

With a heavy sigh, she wrapped the sash around her robe and tied it snug. Careful not to make too much noise, Hermione crept into the kitchen —only to find a single candle lit, and one Ezra Rowe seated at the table. Oh well.

She was keenly aware of Ezra's thorough gaze as it roved down to her boots and all the way back up to her face, her hair. The intensity of it didn't make her uncomfortable, merely more aware of his presence.

"Mid-life crisis already?" His voice carried a chord of amusement.

"Oh, hush." Her lips twitched.

Then his gaze met hers.

"Your eyes are different," Ezra finally said with no little curiosity, and just a bit of concern. The boy rose from his seat and quickly closed the distance between them. Delicately, he brought his hands up to her face, holding her head steady as he stared into her eyes.

Even in the dim light, she could see the thoughts, emotions, dancing in his eyes. Their noses nearly touched. She held her breath, afraid that even exhaling would break the spell.

"I always liked brown."

Hesitantly, so it seemed, he let go of her head. She sucked in a deep breath as if waking from a coma. The spell was broken.

"And you changed your hair," he said —this time, with what sounded like lamentation in his voice. But with a mischievous smile, he flicked a lock of her now-shorter hair and watched with amusement as it swung back into position.

She swatted his hand away and couldn't help but laugh. "Sound like someone else you know?" 

Ezra ignored her comment and went to fetch a cup of tea for her, which she accepted with a muttered thanks.

"You wouldn't tell me if I asked, would you?"

"It's probably better you don't know," she said after a moment.

Ezra sighed and gently set his cup down. "I trust in you, Hermione. Please just be careful."

Several minutes later found Hermione walking down the length of the Ministry of Magic's foyer. Plumes of green flame erupted from the fireplaces lining the walls as visitors and guests Flooed in, and a continuous burst of cracks and pops surrounded her as department employees arrived to start their work day and members of the graveyard shift headed home to get some rest.

As she fought toward the end of the hall, she was consistently jostled, stepped on, or pushed aside as other witches and wizards rushed off to their various destinations; all seemingly oblivious to her presence. She wasn't quite able to stifle a yelp when a balding, thickset man trod on her toes as he steamrolled toward whatever meeting was so important for him to get to.

Two women unapologetically shoved her into a bollard as they made way for a man who was apparently quite important. The sea of people parted before him like he was Moses incarnate, all eager to win his approval —or perhaps avoid his ire.

Hermione couldn't resist the vicious sneer that decorated her face when she saw the Ministry poster tacked to the wall ahead of her. " _ COMPLIANCE IS REQUESTED _ ," it read. " _ Your cooperation ensures the safety of this country. _ " Displayed in bright colours in the centre was an illustration of a haggard woman in rags and chains.  _ This could be you _ , the poster silently promised.

Two Aurors guarded the gate that offered entrance to the heart of the Ministry. Each Auror wore immaculately pressed, crimson robes, with bright white sashes tied around their waists. Hermione had seen Ezra in uniform plenty of times, so she did not feel the need to waste time admiring theirs.

"Identification, please," growled the one on the left. Her hand barely shook as she handed over the docket of papers.

The Auror stared at the first page and then slowly flipped through the rest of the packet. At the back page, he frowned and narrowed his eyes.

Hermione clenched her hands, digging her nails into her palms to such an extent that she was sure she could feel blood. Finally, she could stand his silence no longer. "I'm here for —"

"Your name?" he finally asked.

"Uh —Janet. Janet Hunter," she stammered, feeling for all the world like her heart would explode out of her head. 

"Date of birth?"

"1979, third of September." The words felt robotic and contrived coming from her mouth.

"Hmph," he grunted. Then, he held up the file at arm's length, comparing the photograph to the girl standing in front of him.

Surely the photo would pass inspection. After all, she had taken it two days ago.

"Your wand, then."

Hermione took a deep breath and held out the stolen wand. The Auror took the proffered wand and tapped it several times with his own wand, then wrote something on the register next to him. "Level two, Miss. And don't dawdle."

When the Auror returned her papers and wand, Hermione nearly shot through the gate, desperate to put any amount of distance between herself and him. Her heartbeat was utterly racing, and she was just sure that someone would notice and send her packing.

Thankfully, the lift was empty, save for a dozen or so multicoloured interdepartmental memos flitting about near her head. By the time Hermione arrived at level two, she felt like she had calmed down enough that she could at least maintain a conversation without sounding like she had taken a Babbling Draught.

The lift gate slid open with nary a squeak, ushering Hermione out. Though level two housed the Ministry's Department of Magical Law Enforcement, this section of the building was devoid of the facilities one might expect to see, such as classrooms, duelling platforms, and weapons lockers. Instead, this part of the premises was largely administrative. Brown and grey doors dotted the barren hallway, interspersed with rusted candle mounts every several metres. As she walked down the corridor, she kept an eye on the faded numerals inscribed into the wall next to each door.

2107... 2112... 2131...

Eventually, she found the room she was looking for —room 2171. Steeling herself for what was on the other side of the door, she put her hand to the cold doorknob and turned it.

Inside the room sat two small desks, simple but sturdy, facing each other. One had a slew of papers, folders, calendars, and other knick-knacks; the other was largely empty, save for a tray filled with what appeared to be various forms and documents.

Hermione went to the second desk and plopped her satchel down onto it. With an experienced hand, she began unpacking items from her bag and placing them neatly onto the desk. Quill holder, ink pot, spare parchment...

Suddenly, the door creaked open and she jumped up from what she was doing. A young man, probably late teens or early twenties, entered the room. Light-brown hair shaped his head in a bowl cut; a pair of large glasses sat high on his nose; and his face was pockmarked with remnants of teenage acne. His robes were unremarkable, though he did wear a green sash just like hers indicating his half-blood descent.

Only when he was halfway to his desk did he notice the presence of an extra person. He stopped whistling mid-note and stared at Hermione, who was herself frozen, staring back at him like a deer caught in headlights.

"Can I help you?" the man asked slowly, looking quite confused.

"Yes..." She stood up straight, stack of envelopes still in her hand. "I'm Janet Hunter. I'm here for the, umm, job opening?"

"Oh! Of course," the man said, flushing. "I was sad to see Donna go. But I hear she's onto bigger and better things. Anyway, this is your desk. Well, I see you already found it," he added awkwardly. "I'm to show you around the next few days, show you the ropes and such. Your boss, Judicator Ellis, isn't around much, but there's still plenty to do."

He walked around to the back of his desk and frowned, then shoved a pile of twitching memos from the seat of his chair. "Bloody memos... all the magic in the world and they still can't find their way..." He gestured helplessly to a rather large, and conspicuously empty, tray on his desk that was labelled 'INBOX'.

Hermione resumed the rather cathartic process of emptying the contents of her satchel onto her desk: preparing for her new job. As she neared the bottom of the bag, she found an old issue of  _ The Quibbler _ . With a slight frown, she crumpled it into a ball and sauntered over to the man's desk.

"Pardon," she said after a moment. "What did you say your name was?"

He looked up from the form he was signing, eyes wide. "Oh, dear —how embarrassing! I'm Pat Shellman."

Hermione stuck out her hand. "And I'm Janet. It's nice to  _ officially _ meet you." 

Pat stared at her hand for a moment before reaching out to shake it.

"So," Hermione said, "you're also a secretary, right? Whom did you say you work for?"

"I prefer 'Administrative Assistant', but yes. She's not in today, but I'm sure you'll get to meet her soon. I work for Dolores Umbridge, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot."

#

"Orders from the Lord Marshal," Oliver Sturch said in a singsong tone, waving the parchment in the air. "Wants me to take lead on this, and also kick your scrawny arse."

"Get buggered," Taran Robbins shot back. "Oh, too late, I suppose. Haven't you got the Caretaker riding you all night as it is?" He crudely mimed holding someone in front of him and thrusting.

"Eat shit to Bristol," the other boy snapped. "The Lord Marshal has deemed this a matter of utmost importance, so I'm here at his personal request. I don't care if you like it."

"As I said..." Taran repeated his crude gesture from before.

Sturch ignored him. "Clearly the Caretaker respects real talent. Not that shit you and Rowe and Weasley try to feed him."

"Watch your bloody mouth," Taran snapped.

"It's no wonder he chose me for Praesix and not you lot. And Weasley's entirely a lost cause. Take your stupid orders —hopefully it's the last time I'll ever have to deal with you."

Oliver Sturch tossed over the crumpled parchment, which Taran unfolded and scanned. A Muggle-born, Garreth Reight, had been out last night after curfew, apparently intoxicated, making drunken threats against Fudge. Lovell and Parkinson had accosted him but he'd somehow escaped. Fortunately, they were able to trace his wand to an address. Robbins and Sturch were to retrieve him for processing. A simple snatch and pop, really.

Taran considered his options for a moment before folding the parchment back up and shoving it into his cloak pocket. "Fine. We'll do a Two-Stage Rush. Thirty seconds."

"Seriously? You're such a fucking pussy —"

"Lay off, oh high-and-mighty Praesix."

"Merlin's dick, let's just get this over with," said Sturch with an eye-roll that could have rivalled a six-year-old's. "I have better places to be."

For once, Taran agreed.

Silently, Taran Robbins approached the cottage that stood in front of them. Once he reached the door, he drew his wand and casually waved it in a figure-eight, blasting the door to smithereens and setting the entire house ablaze.

He immediately rushed inside and quickly located the Muggle-born man —Garreth—huddled in the corner by a bookcase that was beginning to smoke.

"You have twenty-four seconds until you're arrested," Taran said as he looked at his watch. "I recommend leaving."

Garreth stood there, frozen, eyes wide in terror —uncomprehending.

"GET THE HELL OUT!"

This seemed to knock the man out of his paralysis. He nodded, jumped up, and Apparated away. Just then, the roof over the living room collapsed in a huge cloud of smoke, flames, and debris.

He checked his watch. Seven seconds until Sturch came in. With a few more spells, Taran destroyed all of the furniture he could see and lit everything else on fire.

Zero seconds. He could hear Sturch's footsteps as the boy rushed in.

"Where did he go?!" Taran yelled through the smoke.

"What happened?"

"Find him!" 

A thorough search of the blazing house revealed nothing, which was not at all a surprise to Taran. Eventually, they extinguished the flames and Disapparated.

"What the hell happened?" Sturch asked as they stalked through the Ministry foyer.

"Not sure. He must have known we were coming —Portkeyed out just as I blew the door."

Sturch looked at him askance, but didn't seem to have the energy to pursue it. "You're going to tell the Lord Marshal. Not me."

#

"Did you see this?!"

Hermione and Pat were seated at one of the lunch tables in the Ministry cafeteria. It was nearing the end of the lunch break, so most employees had already returned to their offices, leaving the cafeteria relatively empty. Despite the fact that they had chosen a table that was almost at the centre of the room, no one else was seated in their vicinity.

Hermione's food was nearly untouched, relegated to the far corner of the table as she pored over an edition of  _ The Quibbler _ which was spread out in front of her. Every few minutes, the real estate occupied by the tabloid seemed to grow, causing Pat to have to relocate his own bowl of soup. By now, there was a solid two metres of distance between the two of them, most of which was occupied by various pages of  _ The Quibbler _ .

"Unbelievable," she snapped. "Eight Muggle-borns attacked in Pembroke on Thursday; five more in Canterbury —yesterday!"

"Janet," Pat said, shrinking even further away from her, "I'm not sure that —"

"And of course the  _ Prophet _ refuses to print a word of it. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, but..."

"You really shouldn't have that here," Pat hissed. "Someone might see!"

Hermione bit back a retort, instead grinding her teeth. "Fine, you're right." She gathered up the papers and stuffed them into her bag.

Little did she know that, indeed, someone had seen. Or, perhaps more accurately, heard. Dolores Umbridge stood still, hidden in one of the alcoves by the loo as she listened to the rather one-sided discussion. She had half a mind to march over there and give them both a reason to be afraid, but, perhaps, there was a more prudent course of action.

After ensuring that both Shellman and that new girl —she must have been Ellis' new secretary—would remain here for a bit longer, Dolores power-walked to the lifts. As always, people bowed out of her way, falling over themselves to treat her with the respect she deserved. She had no trouble claiming a lift for herself, and once she reached level two she nearly sprinted to her office. After retrieving her invisibility cloak, she wrapped it around herself and made her way to room 2171.

A thorough search of the new girl's desk and drawers revealed nothing of interest. Nor the bin. But when she turned to check the filing cabinets, she spotted something unexpected: a crumpled issue of that  _ Quibbler _ drivel in  _ Pat _ 's rubbish bin.

Her lips thinned. Not good. She would set that boy straight, ensure that he was punished for having possession of such... well, rubbish.

But those thoughts faded from her mind as she smoothed out the paper and skimmed over it. Not one, but two attacks on Mudblood scum. She nearly giggled in delight. Glad tidings always came from the most unexpected of places. It was just unclear why the  _ Prophet  _ had failed to report such good news.

At any rate... That new girl —Janet Hunter, according to the nameplate on her desk—well, she would need to have a word with her about what was and wasn't appropriate reading at the Ministry of Magic.

#

"On my count, kill the Intrusion Ward," whispered Braxton Hale. The boy ran his hand through his dark, wavy hair, pushing it out of his face, and then raised his wand.

"Three, two, one..."

As one, they both waved their wands in a spiral. However, rather than the expected  _ pop _ that usually accompanied the dismantling of the ward —

_**BOOM!** _

Ezra was thrown off his feet, sailing through the air like a ragdoll until he landed what felt like minutes later. Upon impact, his head exploded in pain as it struck the cement, and a high-pitched tone overwhelmed his ears. His vision wavered, stars and other various shapes danced in his eyes —he could feel more than hear chaotic movement around him. Pops of Apparition, spells cast, shouts and screams and curses.

A faint silhouette materialised in front of him. Above him? Ahead of him? It was moving frantically; he felt hands grip his shoulders, his head, shaking him. A mouth moving.

A mouth moving. Saying something.

The screeching in his ears was dying down.

"Rowe!"

He tried to move his mouth. It felt glued shut. Or open, maybe.

"Rowe! Get the hell up!  _ Rowe! _ "

"Yeah..." he finally felt himself say.

"You fucked up, Rowe! He got away!" the mouth was shouting. Who did it belong to? "You nearly killed Hale, you fucking moron!"

"Good..." he half-whispered, half-coughed.

"My God, he's gone round the bend. You better fucking see me in my office tomorrow, so I can chew your arse out properly!"

#

The only sound in the room was a nearly steady shuffling of papers interspersed by an occasional scratching of quill on paper. This evening's special edition of  _ The Quibbler  _ was splayed out on the small table, with various articles —some fantastical and others not so much—spread out over the pages of the tabloid. Every few minutes, Hermione Granger would mumble something aloud, scribble a small note in her private script, and resume chewing on her bottom lip as she scanned the publication that had once been the laughingstock of news publication but had of late turned into a reliable source of information for more than a few households in Britain.

As Hermione finished reading an article about Pygmy rights, she heard the distinct but rather uneven shuffle of footsteps coming from the direction of the sitting room. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ezra enter the room, stop in his tracks, and take in the scene before him.

After a moment, she spoke. "You know, it's impolite to stare."

From his position, he could not see the warm smile on her face. Instead, he coughed, and maybe spluttered a bit to hide his discomfort. Then: "What's going on?"

A question full of baggage, if she ever heard one. Hermione decided to ignore it for now.

"One day, Ezra." Tenderly, she brought her thumb to the tail of her quill and ran it down the edge of the impossibly soft feather. "One day, things will be different. But not yet. Not today."

Ezra grunted his assent, and announced he would be retiring for the evening. As he turned to leave, Hermione finally looked up at him and noticed he was walking with a limp —favouring his right leg.

"What in the world happened to your leg?" she asked sharply.

His stiff body language said everything she needed to know even before he opened his mouth. "Hmm? Oh, nothing to worry about. Bit of an accident." 

Before he could limp out of the room, Hermione jumped up and grabbed his arm. "What is it?" she asked in a tone that didn't bode well for him.

Ezra sighed, laying his hand on hers and gently removing it from his arm. "An accident at work."

Her glare did not waver.

"I blew up a ward in Hale's face. Captain was not pleased. I'm pretty sure the healers left it this way just to irk me." At the look on her face, he quickly added, "I'm sure it'll be fine in a few days."

"Come," Hermione clipped. She once more grabbed his arm and not-so-gently tugged him behind her toward the sitting room.

"I'll be alright," Ezra protested —rather weakly, in her opinion.

"Uh huh, I'm sure."

A quick wave of her wand vanished the laundry that someone (not her) had left on the sofa, then she shoved him onto it.

"Ow, woman..."

"Oh, hush, you big baby." Hermione rolled her eyes. Then, she whispered, " _ Evanesco _ ."

"Hermione!"

"Didn't I say to hush?" she quipped. "Besides... turnabout is fair play."

With his trousers vanished, it was easy to see the damage that had been done to his leg. Thankfully, the healers had stopped the bleeding, but they had otherwise left the gashes and burns largely untouched.

Ever since Ezra had healed her from her jaunt with the Aurors and the Ministry holding cells, Hermione had been ardently studying, and practising, basic medical spells, knowing that it was a critical skill to have up one's sleeve.

Actually, she was quite sure that he technically had the ability to mend the leg himself, but he was far too stubborn and proud to do it. Ezra would prefer to grit his teeth and live with the pain, but she wouldn't give him that luxury.

After several minutes of work, and more than a few hisses and curses on Ezra's part, the boy's leg was looking much better. The wounds were closed, burns treated, and bruises lessened. The leg would ache for a bit, but would otherwise heal quite quickly.

When prompted, Ezra flexed and stretched his leg this way and that. "Hmm," he grunted, "seems to be working much better. Thank you."

"I thought it might," Hermione said lightly. She tapped her fingers on his leg before getting up and smoothing some invisible creases from her jeans. "You look beat —you should just sleep here. I have to get back..."

She gave him a small wave and made her way back toward the kitchen.

"Can I have my trousers back?"

Hermione slowed and looked back at him. Then, with a playful simper: "No."

The warm smile on her face faded as she sat back down to the table and stared at her notes. Yes —it was time. She needed to talk to Luna.

After only a moment's hesitation, Hermione pulled her scarf from her bag and lay it on the table in front of her. Then, she aimed her wand and began to incant.

#

_**What are you doing?** _ _ The celestial voice asked. It was concerned, anxious _ _ —and a little bit amused.  _ _**It is not within your rights to violate the laws of nature at your whim.** _

_ He raised his wand, aiming it in front of him. Magic began to seep out, bleed, pour off of him, flooding the very fibres of the dreamscape around him. It pulled at him, it seduced him. _

_ Resistance was pointless. He would give in. A plume of black magic flowed from his wand, his hands, onto the ground in front of him. Then, a body rose up, pure magic incarnate. Unnaturally tall, lanky _ _ —with no eyes, but a manic grin. _

_**You can't beat death. You can only submit to it.** _

_ "Watch me!" he felt himself shout into the void, to the source of the ethereal voice. _

_ The simulacrum was laughing. Arms extended, rich guffaws emanating from its disgusting mouth. Laughing. _

_ "Stop it! Shut up!" _

_**Can't accept the truth? What a pity.** _

_ "Avada Kedavra!" he screamed, pointing his wand to the simulacrum and watching with carnal satisfaction as a green cone of light enveloped the body. _

_ But rather than die, the simulacrum continued to stand there _ _ —its laughter slowly transitioning into screaming and wailing that echoed through the threads of the very universe. _

Ezra's eyes shot open, but the wailing didn't stop; in fact, it only seemed to intensify. Ezra jumped up from his chair —not a great location for a nap, but sometimes it just had to do—and snatched his cloak, all the while trying to find the Auror manual he had stashed in one of his many drawers. He saw most of the other Aurors doing the same.

It was a DMLE alarm, he knew that much, but he couldn't be arsed to remember which one. Why bother remembering such useless trivia when he could just look it up? Provided he could find the bloody manual. It was hard to focus —the damn blaring was so fucking loud. Surely it could be toned down a notch. There was really no reason it should be configured to wake the living, the dead, and everything in between.

Suddenly, the doors to the office flew open and Cartwright came running in, slip of parchment in hand.

"It's a Sigma alarm!" she shouted, "Romney Marsh!"

"What the hell's going —"

"Rowe, Hughes, Weasley, Lovell, Bennett —on me!"

Cartwright wasted no time in Disapparating. Ezra followed her, tracing her Apparition trail through the twisted and chaotic magical wormholes that transcended space. He assumed the other four would be doing the same.

The scene he arrived at was not at all what he was expecting. No wars, riots, or spell fights; instead, a quaint farm, with a herd of goats and sheep bleating from the field next to them. Just ahead stood a large barn, visibly old and tattered but apparently sturdy. The large barn doors were open and he could see inside: besides an uneven floor made of straw, hay, and dung, the barn appeared largely empty.

However, the centrepiece of the stage was not the barn, but rather the dismembered, disfigured body that lay in front of it. An Auror's body, based on the robes and sash. Even from this distance, Ezra could see a severed head, a severed arm, a pool of blood under the body, and small rivers emanating from that same pool, spreading out from the centre like tiny cracks.

Captain Sanders, who had apparently beat them all here, was knelt over the body and seemed to be examining it.

Ezra looked around at the other Aurors. Cartwright was already casting a slew of spells on the door of the barn; small sparks jumped from her wand as she muttered a variety of different incantations. Weasley had moved toward the fields and had started setting up advanced repulsion wards over the area. Pulsing streams of light flowed from his wand to a glistening, translucent dome that was forming over the barn and the surrounding grounds. Hughes and Bennett seemed to be investigating the broken wooden fence that was set up opposite the barn.

Elspeth Pilkington stood several metres away from the body. Her legs were locked straight, very uncharacteristic for a trained Auror, and she stood motionless, hands held over her mouth in shock. She just stared at the body with sightless eyes.

Pilkington had not been with them at the office —she must have been here already. What had happened?

"Lovell, Rowe, come here." The captain's voice interrupted his musings, and Ezra ran over to join him, dropping to his knees next to the body as Lovell did the same.

Now that he was close to the body, he recognised that it belonged to one Temen Jarrett. If he had looked terrible from afar, he looked downright revolting up close. The head had been severed, yes, but one ear had also been quite uncleanly sawed off, and his mouth was filled with blood, bile, and other things that Ezra didn't want to think about. A frenzy of gashes, slices, and punctures covered the rest of the body, all of which had clearly bled vociferously when introduced, and a few of which continued to ooze residual blood.

"Pilkington!" shouted Captain Sanders, causing Ezra to jump.

The girl didn't seem to have heard him; she continued to stare, motionless, at Jarrett.

"Pilkington, get over here!"

Finally, Pilkington broke out of her spell and slowly, jerkily, approached the group of Aurors surrounding the body.

"What the hell happened?" Sanders asked, no sign of sympathy or compassion in his voice.

"I..." She took a deep breath. Her face had paled even further, and it appeared that she was shivering, but she continued. "Jarrett and I were partnered for this assignment." She reached her hand into her robe and pulled out an assignment docket, handing it to the captain. "It was a simple 12-9. But the witch Disapparated and somehow masked her trail. Jarrett was lead, so he decided we'd stay here to investigate."

Captain Sanders pursed his lips but did not interrupt.

"We split up to investigate the premises. I was behind the barn examining a flaw in the ward anchors —and then I heard a scream and then a small fight coming from here, so I ran back around..." Pilkington took a deep breath. "By the time I got here, Jarrett was... like this. Dead. I didn't see who had done it, but I called in the alarm straight away."

"I see... Damn it, Jarrett, you bloody incompetent," Sanders muttered more to himself than anything. "Okay. Pilkington, go over there, and sit. I will come get you when I need you."

Elspeth Pilkington gave the barest of nods, then scrubbed at her eyes and walked over to sit on the small boulder that Sanders had pointed out.

Captain Sanders dug his wand into a large gash in Jarrett's chest. " _ Specialis Revelio _ ." He frowned when nothing happened, and tried again to similar effect. 

"Bugger it all," he said, glowering. "The wounds were inflicted with a nonmagical weapon; it's why the charm isn't showing anything."

"Oh, pity," Lovell said. "So there's nothing we can do?"

"I didn't say that, did I? Be glad I'm not as incompetent as you lot. Back up a bit."

After a flick of his wand, Sanders began to quietly recite an incantation. Ezra couldn't quite hear it, but it sounded Russian, or maybe Serbian. As the body began to pulse white, Ezra backed up even more, until he was further back than both Sanders and Lovell.

Slowly, a glowing image —a sort of hologram, or conjuration, not unlike the Dark Mark—began to materialise over Jarrett's body. The image was blurry, tinged with green tendrils, but eventually the tendrils receded and the image sharpened. It appeared to be a machete of sorts—no, not a machete, but a knife. The curve of the blade and ridges on the handle seemed familiar, but why?

"What the fuck?" a voice said from behind him.

Ezra turned around to see Damien Hughes, the Auror force's resident half-blood, staring at the evanescent knife.

"I recognise that knife..." said the boy, clearly perplexed.

_ Oh, no _ . A sinking realisation filled the pit of Ezra's stomach. No wonder the knife looked familiar.

"That's Nott's knife, that is," Hughes said, confirming Ezra's suspicion.

A sharp gasp from Ezra's left told him that Pilkington had also heard the comment.

Hughes stowed his wand and began to walk toward the body —and the captain. "...what the hell's it doing here?"

Ezra's heart began to beat faster and faster; he could feel it through his entire body. He was sure he knew how this scene would play out, and it was not pretty. Morals of Pilkington's behaviour aside, sooner or later he himself would be implicated, and that was simply not an option. Grimacing, Ezra drew his wand, desperately wishing for a less stupid option to come to mind.

Nothing did.

" _ Obliviate _ ," he whispered. Hughes stopped in his tracks, shook his head in a daze, and then wandered off.

Hand shaking, Ezra quickly stowed his wand and looked around to make sure no one had noticed his illicit behaviour. The captain was still engrossed in the holographic image, prodding at it with his wand. Lovell was following along eagerly, desperate to learn something new. The other Aurors had returned to their own investigations.

And then he turned around further, and locked eyes with Pilkington.

#

Hermione pulled on an old tank top over her sports bra, followed by a black tee and then her robes. For the tenth time, she inspected her wand, and once she was again convinced that it had no cracks or blemishes, she stuffed it into her robe pocket.

"I don't think you should go," Ezra said at long last. He leaned against the door jam, arms crossed, with a scowl imprinted on his face. "It's too dangerous."

"Is that so?" Hermione said as she turned to face him. "Do you really think that?"

Ezra worked his jaw, resisting the overwhelming urge to say the first thing on his mind. His excessive nerves expressed themselves through his foot that tapped erratically on the hardwood floor.

"It  _ is _ too dangerous."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," she responded flatly. "Obviously it's too dangerous. This whole thing is too dangerous. But it needs to be done."

He looked down, observing the patterns his foot was beating into the ground. "Please don't go."

"I know how weird it must feel for me to go without you. I know that you want to go." Her voice was soft. "But  _ you  _ know you can't."

Hermione closed the distance between them, then took hold of his arms and uncrossed them. With an imperturbable look in her eye, she stepped even closer to him and then pulled him into a fierce hug.

After a long moment, she turned her head and whispered in his ear. "I'll be okay. I promise."

With a deep sigh, she pulled back from the embrace and Disapparated, leaving Ezra Rowe behind.

To Hermione's great surprise, she was the last one to arrive at the warehouse.

"You're late, Granger," said Mad-Eye Moody, one eye staring a hole in her and the other inspecting the face of his pocket watch.

She blushed. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise."

"Lay off, Mad-Eye, she's only like twenty seconds late," Tonks said with a giggle.

"Twenty seconds could be the difference —"

"Yeah, yeah, we get it." Tonks turned back to Hermione. "Are you ready?"

With what Hermione hoped was a brave face, she nodded. "I think so. Yes." She gulped.

Minerva McGonagall finally spoke. "This is quite a last-minute change of plans. Are you sure we should go through with it?"

"I'm sorry for the quick change in direction, but yes, I'm sure." As she spoke, Hermione absentmindedly tied her hair up. "Something big happened today with the Aurors and they're in a tizzy —attacking tonight will put them on their back foot. Robbins agrees."

"Very well —it's your call."

"These are the Apparition coordinates," Hermione said, handing out slips of paper to the three people gathered before her. "Let me know when you're ready."

Once everyone had memorised the coordinates of their destination, Moody counted off and the four wizards Disapparated.

Milliseconds later, they landed on what appeared to be a thoroughly abandoned street. Hermione looked left and right —no cars, people, or even wildlife. Besides the four of them, the only living beings nearby were some slender, leafless trees next to an abandoned park a hundred or so metres off, and several rows of shrubbery that unashamedly lined the road; even then, it was unclear just how alive the shrubberies were.

"I don't see a thing," Moody said, tapping on his magical eye as it continued to spin around in circles, seeking out potential threats, living or otherwise.

Right next to the street stood their apparent target: a large, industrial building that looked like it had been built in the nineteenth century. The facade was entirely brick, though the colour had long since faded to different hues of mottled brown. Some sections of the wall were discoloured arbitrarily, perhaps due to continuous exposure to moisture or smoke or something else entirely. A single pair of iron doors decorated the otherwise bare wall in front of them; there were no features or windows at this level, and in fact, Hermione had to crane her neck to see the first windows inset in the wall high above them, starting at what must have been the third or fourth floor. Even those windows were quite dreary: they were small and square, and appeared to be adorned with iron bars.

McGonagall drew her wand and held it firmly in her hand while she stared at the edifice in front of her. "What is this place?"

After taking a half dozen steps toward the building, Hermione squinted at the doors. "I'm not sure..." It was dark out, and her eyes were still adjusting to the lack of light. After several seconds, she was able to just barely make out some faded text painted above the entryway:

_ Hull Solutions Research  _

"It's an old Muggle research facility. I'm not sure what for."

"Whatever it is, we're sitting ducks out here." Moody's whisper was more of a gruff croaking. "We need some cover."

"I'm inclined to agree," said McGonagall. "Let's go."

The group silently crept along the row of bushes, with Moody leading the way. Twice during their trek, he suddenly stopped and held a hand up as if waiting for an unseen danger to pass; Hermione was convinced he largely did this for show.

Eventually, they gathered in the deep shadow cast by the northern corner of the building. From this position, no one on the street could see them —but neither could they see anything of interest.

"We'll sneak in, but be careful," said Moody after a long moment. "I can't see through these damn walls."

Tonks shuffled behind him. "We won't be able to sneak in those doors. I guarantee you there's at least three Aurors inside."

"Then we'll blast our way in," Moody said, quite smugly.

McGonagall harrumphed. "Absolutely not, Alastor. Not all of us are as mad as you."

"This is an industrial facility," Hermione interjected. "They're going to have a loading dock in the back, I'm sure."

Moody grumbled but obediently followed Hermione as she led them around the building.

Sure enough, they found themselves on a raised platform with four docks for Muggle lorries to unload at. The deck was riddled with crates, boxes, temporary barriers, and small vehicles. Two large, rolling aluminium doors were set into the wall, complete with operation controls hanging from a nearby scaffold.

"Not much better," Tonks hissed in the darkness. "They could easily have it guarded."

"True, but we've better cover if we need it," said Moody. He lifted his wand and cast a spell which caused the air around them to glimmer silver for a moment before subsiding.

"Anti-Apparition ward?" McGonagall asked.

Moody nodded. "I don't want them getting any ideas. Granger, do you know how that contraption works?"

She nodded. 

"Fine. You open the doors. Hopefully there won't be any resistance..."

With a final precautionary glance around the compound, Hermione crept along the inner wall toward the box of electronics hanging near the garage-style door. Fortunately, two buttons were prominently labelled with an up and down arrow. She pressed and held the 'up' button, praying that the Aurors hadn't disconnected the circuitry.

Her prayers were heard, but she cringed when the door began to grate against its tracks, groaning quite unnecessarily (in her opinion) as it fought its way into the large, cylindrical glove overhead —probably the first time it had done so in years.

Thankfully, no Aurors came to greet them.

With wands held in front of them, the group slipped through the wide entrance and lit their wands. A handful of large wooden crates dotted the main floor, most of them filled with various rubbish. Long metal shelving units rose high into the air, some bolted to the walls, others freestanding. The outer shelves were lined with various power tools and miscellaneous knick-knacks, but the majority of the other shelves housed thousands of small boxes filled with what appeared to be medical supplies.

This must have been a medical research facility.

"DUCK!" Moody suddenly shouted.

A lattice of spells sailed through the air where their heads had just been. Moody and McGonagall simultaneously shouted " _ Protego _ !", raising overlapping Shield Charms which immediately took the brunt of an overpowered Concussive Hex cast by an unseen attacker. The shields deflected the shock wave to the sides, smashing all of the boxes on the shelves to either side of them.

An enormous ball of fire screamed toward them; Hermione dove right, and was more than a little relieved when she saw that Tonks had joined her. Presumably —hopefully—Mad-Eye and McGonagall had gone the other way. The two duos were now separated by a wall of violent flames that had sprung up where the fireball had impacted.

Tonks was already engaged in a wand fight with two Aurors —one, a tall, bearded man with a hooked nose and freakishly long fingers; the other, a shorter, but still quite lithe, woman with cropped brown hair. The Metamorphmagus was rapidly trading spells with both opponents, but as the seconds passed she had to adopt a more defensive posture, as she couldn't seem to find an opening to attack.

Hermione gingerly picked herself up from the ground and, after taking a deep breath, went on the offensive, throwing a Stunner toward the female Auror, who easily deflected it and —to her great dismay—turned her full attention on Hermione. The power of the woman's spells was breathtaking, and it was all Hermione could do to not physically stagger every time one of them smashed into her shield.

Realising that this arms race was not one that she could win, Hermione decided on a different approach, one that was more her style anyway. Without uttering a word, she jabbed her wand and flicked it downward, conjuring a pile of red and gold bow ties that fell lamely to the floor in a heap.

The Auror laughed at the sight and flicked her wand to send a Slashing Hex toward Hermione, but suddenly, the bow ties morphed into sharp, and quite deadly, pairs of scissors that shot toward their target. With a yelp, the woman conjured an iron wall to block the flying blades, but the wall dissolved into a handful of sand that lifelessly pooled around her feet. She screamed as dozens of scissors impaled her, and she collapsed to the floor in a bloody heap.

Hermione collapsed to her knees, heart still beating rapidly, too rapidly —roaring in her ears. At the sight of the lifeless body and torn, bloody rags that used to be considered clothing, she bent over and puked, twice. Finally, when she came up for air, she saw a hand in front of her face, holding a glass of water. Shivering, Hermione raised her head to see Tonks kneeling next to her. Apparently, the others had finished up their own duels.

"Thanks," she muttered, cringing at the bile and vomit lining the inside of her mouth.

"You okay?" Tonks asked. "You did good, you know."

Hermione was silent but then slowly shook her head. "Later," she said, begging off the question. Now wasn't the time to get overwhelmed by guilt, or revulsion.

Tonks patted her on the back and then got to her feet, holding her hand out to the girl.

"We need to be quick," Moody said, ignoring the scene between Tonks and Hermione, much to her gratitude. "There are more Aurors coming soon."

McGonagall waved her wand, cleaning dust off of her robes. "How do you know?"

"Trust me —let's go!"

They ran down the corridor that the Aurors had emerged from, and finally found themselves in a large room with a ceiling so high that Hermione couldn't even see it in the dim light. She lit her wand and gasped.

Arranged all around them were rows of cages —animal cages. This hadn't just been a medical research centre—but a biomedical testing facility.

The cages were no longer occupied by animals. No, it was a hundred times worse. The cages were stuffed with  _ humans _ , witches and wizards, all of them almost certainly Muggle-born or perhaps half-blood. There must have been at least fifty cages, each one not much bigger than a cubic metre, with a person stuffed in there, forced into the foetal position, like some sort of barbaric origami.

Tonks, Hermione, and McGonagall started to work, while Moody stood guard over them. Hermione ran to the first cage, melted the magical lock, then vanished the cage itself. She checked the man's pulse and nearly fainted with relief when she felt something —weak, but present nevertheless. She pulled a pin from her pocket and faltered. The Portkey would take him out of the country, to one of several vetted locations scattered across Europe and Asia. The man would be on his own, without friends or family, likely confused and scared out of his wits; but for now, it was truly the safest option for him.

"Granger, get on with it," hissed Moody from behind her.

Hermione sighed. Reluctantly, she clipped it on his ragged robe, then tapped it with her wand. The man disappeared.

Hermione worked her way down the row, vanishing each cage and subsequently examining each prisoner. Most were unconscious or asleep, and they were summarily Portkeyed out. A few were dead, and Hermione had to resist the urge to scrub her hands after touching each one.

It was gruelling, sickening work.

When she was about half finished with her row, Moody shouted: "Hurry it up! We've only got a few minutes!"

Hermione quickly sent the woman off and darted off to the next cell. When she opened it and turned the witch's head, she gasped. "Cho!"

She couldn't breathe; her heart raced, blood pumped through her veins uncomfortably; her fingers were frozen in mid-air. Cho was  _ alive _ !

"Cho..." she repeated, tears threatening to fall from her eyes.

Moody was yelling at her, but she ignored him.

Cho was in bad shape. Her pulse was barely there; irregular, faint. Hermione quickly discovered why: a large gash in her head that looked weeks old but still hadn't healed. It was covered by a brittle scab, but still oozed dark blood.

"She won't last long..." she whispered, more to herself than anybody.

"What's that?" asked Moody. "Send her off, we have to get going."

"She won't last out there."

"Life's tough. Clip the Portkey and move along!"

"She'll DIE!" Hermione screamed. At her sudden outburst, Tonks and McGonagall looked over from where they were working.

Hermione picked up the melted cage lock from the floor and pointed her wand at it.

"What are you doing?" Moody asked suspiciously.

"Sending her to the warehouse. She needs to be —"

"That's not part of the plan —too dangerous."

"Things don't always go according to plan, do they?" she snapped.

Mad-Eye thumped the ground with his wooden leg. "Bloody Merlin's balls... This is on you if it blows up in our faces."

" _ Portus _ ," she murmured, tapping the lock. It flashed blue once, and she laid it in Cho's palm. A few seconds later, the girl vanished.

After Cho, Hermione found two more wizards that she deemed too injured to survive on their own. She similarly sent them to the warehouse, mentally crossing her fingers that she wouldn't regret this decision.

As she tended to the last prisoner in her row, an explosion ripped through walls, sending chunks of concrete, brick, and metal flying through the air.

"Get out!" Moody bellowed.

Hermione clipped the final Portkey onto the unconscious wizard in her hands, then activated her own Portkey.

#

As she had for the past week, Dolores Umbridge inconspicuously approached room 2171 and, after knocking to make sure no one was inside, slipped through the door. Casually, as if grabbing a doughnut from the breakfast tray, she snatched the daily edition of  _ The Quibbler _ from Shellman's rubbish bin.

Without a second glance, Dolores stuffed the illicit tabloid into her cloak and hightailed it out of her secretary's office. Once she was closer to her own section of the building, she slowed from her power walk and tried to appear more casual as she sauntered down the corridor. Appearances had to be maintained, of course.

"Chief Umbridge," a short man snivelled as she turned the final corner before her office. "I'm —I'm sorry to bother you—"

"What is it?" she snapped. Had he been waiting behind the corner just to ambush her? She would need to have a word with his superior.

The man —Trometheus or Tromblebone or whatever his name was—held out a form toward her, and in his other hand, a quill. "We have a requisition for four hundred Black Quills—"

"Fine, fine," she muttered. She took the quill, signed where he had indicated, and swept past him.

When Dolores got to her office, she flicked her wand, shutting the door behind her and locking it with the strongest charm she knew.

Gingerly pulling the newspaper from her cloak, she carefully unfolded it and read through the headlines. Three attacks in the past week. Three! She could not stop the grin that emerged on her face.

Tomorrow, she would go down to the  _ Prophet _ 's main office and have a chat with the Editor. Why they had been refusing to print this good news themselves, she had no idea, but she intended to find out —and rectify that situation.

With a harrumph, Dolores ignited the tabloid and turned her attention to her desk, filled to the brim with annoying paperwork as always. Merlin, what the hell did Shellman do all day? Wasn't all this his job?

Hmm. Perhaps she needed to find a new secretary.

Dolores began to sort through the piles of parchment on her desk. Her organisational method was simple. Everything went into one of two piles. Most things went into the first pile, or more accurately, a bin which was incinerated daily —a pleasant end-of-the-day ritual. What few things remained, unfortunately, had to be addressed individually. 

As she was nearing the bottom of the pile, she froze. The next item to be sorted was a letter, and it was addressed directly to her:

_**Dolores J Umbridge, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot** _

What was this? There was no return address on the letter. She frowned, then slit it open with her wand and unfolded the parchment within.

_ Chief Umbridge, _

_ I hope you have been enjoying the show. _

_ I write not because I particularly care for you or your Ministry, but because I think you and I share several common interests. For example, we both have a refined distaste for those that defile our land, our country _ _ —our magic. _

_ It is my hope that you and I can work together in the future. I know you are naturally suspicious, so as a token of my sincerity, I offer you a gift: Lincoln, 9. _

_ Please let me know how you like your gift, _   
_ Your Associate _

What the hell type of gift was that? Dolores scowled and drummed her fingers on the desk, staring at the yellow parchment. She wasn't sure what sort of games this prankster was playing, but she didn't have time to waste on this tomfoolery.

With a scoff, she crumpled up the letter and went to toss it into the bin —but, on second thought... No, she would throw it out tomorrow. For now, she placed it in her top drawer and shovelled some other useless documents on top of it.

By that time the next day, Dolores had forgotten all about that ridiculous letter. Instead, she continued her new habit of stealing  _ The Quibbler _ from Shellman's office and scanning it for new reports of attacks. Indeed, today's issue reported yet another attack, much to her insatiable pleasure.

_**Nine Muggle-borns Killed in Cowardly Attack in Lincoln!** _

As she turned to discard the paper in the pre-incineration bin, she paused, and her eyes slowly widened.  _ Quibbler _ forgotten, Dolores flung her desk drawer open, desperately rooting through the papers until she found the letter that she had been so close to disposing of yesterday. Her eyes quickly roved over the handwritten text until she found the line of interest:

_ I offer you a gift: Lincoln, 9. _

_ Lincoln, 9. _

Nine killed in Lincoln.

Her correspondent had predicted the attack a day early. No, not predicted... Instigated. He was the  _ cause _ of the attack.

If this wasn't a blessing from above, she wasn't sure what was.

So, yes, she decided —she very much did like his gift. Nevertheless, it did pay to be cautious. She would not be swindled by ignominious legerdemain and baseless parlour tricks. Grabbing her ink pot and a quill, she quickly scribbled a letter of her own. With a clipped command, she summoned one of the delivery owls that she had on retainer by her window.

"See this letter?" Dolores held up yesterday's letter to the owl. "Deliver this to its owner." She tied her correspondence to the owl and shooed it away.

_ To Whom it May Concern, _

_ I am appreciative of your gift. Nevertheless, one must exercise certain caution in today's climate. _

_ I would be  _ _ quite _ _ pleased if I were to find a gift in Nottingham. So pleased that I might consider a joint business venture in our future. _

_ Yours Truly. _

#

"Does Langley really think that we're going to find anything in Leicester?"

Cartwright whipped around and jabbed her finger into his chest. "Your place isn't to question orders, Rowe, just do what you're told."

Once she had turned around again, Ezra rolled his eyes. Rookwood and Langley had had the Aurors sweeping random cities and towns in the evenings, looking for Muggle-borns in hiding. Recent legislation had passed requiring all Muggle-borns to report to Tower Ivory for safe housing, and unsurprisingly, the DMLE had put in a lot of effort to hunt down those who were violating the decree.

When they arrived at the first house on their list, Ezra lifted his wand —

"You gonna blow up a ward in my face like you did to Hale?" Cartwright sneered.

"You gonna blow me like you do the commander?" Ezra shot back.

"What, would you like me to?" 

Ezra snorted. "I see you're channelling your inner Dennett."

Cartwright grimaced. "Don't make me puke."

"I'd puke too if I had Langley's cock in my mouth all my day," Ezra said with no little vitriol.

"Bloody hell, you're a pain in the arse. Let's just split up —you take the north section and I'll take the south. Meet back here at 0200."

"Fine with me," he said with a shrug.

What a bitch.

An hour into the assignment and he was already bored as death. So far, his entire evening had consisted of him knocking at the door of the next house on the list, asking the resident if they were housing any Muggle-borns, and then leaving when they said no. Of course, that wasn't the official standard operating procedure, but he couldn't really care less.

For what felt like the thousandth time that evening —but was more likely the thirtieth—he knocked on the door of the cottage standing in front of him.

"Who is it?" a voice called from within.

"Open up. Ministry business," he shouted, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the inanity of the whole situation.

A long minute passed until he heard the shuffling of steps approaching; then, the door opened, and a petite, rather pretty blond appeared in the darkness.

"Rowe?" the girl asked.

He had to bite back a gasp. It was Finley, from Auror training. What was her given name again?

"Finley?" he finally spluttered. "What are you doing here?"

Irene. It was Irene Finley.

"I live here," she said flatly, crossing her arms. "Why are  _ you _ here?"

"Oh." Ezra flushed. "I'm an Auror now."

"Obviously."

"We've been doing random sweeps of cities, looking for..." he trailed off. "Looking for fugitive Muggle-borns. Langley —he's the Archcommander—he's an idiot."

Finley's face softened a touch, and she cracked a smile. "I know. I've been reading the  _ Prophet _ ."

Ezra felt himself relax. "May I come in?"

"Umm..." Her eyes darted around, and she shuffled her feet nervously.

"I promise I don't bite."

"Okay," she acquiesced. "Only for a bit, please. I have to be up early tomorrow."

He nodded and followed her inside to a quaint but comfortable sitting room, whereupon she gestured toward a plush, brown sofa pushed against the far wall.

Ezra sat down, but wasn't sure what to say.

"I don't regret it, you know." Finley was looking down at her hands clasped in her lap. "Leaving Aurum Vale, I mean."

"You shouldn't regret it," Ezra finally said.

Finley quickly looked up at him. "How do you mean?"

"Every day, I wake up wishing that I'd gotten the hell out when I could. They're not people you want to work with. It's not an organisation you want to work for." Ezra stared off at the wall above her shoulder, refusing to meet her eyes.

A long silence pervaded the room —a d étente that both were wary of jostling.

Finley wiped a tear from her eye. "Then why did you stay? Why do you still do it?"

"I had a debt to this world. One I've yet to repay. It isn't about what I want to do, but what needs to be done." He traced an idle pattern into the fabric of the sofa. "Seeing you the very first day, after our morning run —it was the first, and maybe only, time at Aurum Vale where I felt like maybe things wouldn't be so bad. Like there was still a bit of good buried deep in the mound of hatred and violence that we call the Auror force."

Once again, a small smile —this time tinged with sadness—adorned Finley's face. "You were the only reason I considered staying. You were... kind to me," she whispered, "and I'll never forget that. I'm sorry that I couldn't stay and be a bit of a light for you."

Ezra opened his mouth, but she continued.

"I don't know what debt it is you're trying to repay, but if I can ever help you with it, please let me know. I owe you that much."

They locked eyes; in hers, Ezra could see guilt, vulnerability, and above all —determination. Slowly, he nodded.

A small  _ thump _ from upstairs knocked him out of his reverie. "What was that?" he mused.

"Oh, it's the, umm... The ruddy cat."

Something on her shelf then caught his eye: a small, metal rod poking up from behind a framed picture of Finley and what must have been her parents.

It was an antenna from a Muggle radio.

Then, he understood.

"I would keep that hidden if I were you."

Eyes wide, Finley jerkily nodded.

Without a second glance, Ezra swept out of the house.

#

Hermione darted through the jumble of residential streets in lesser London, always keeping half an eye behind her to make sure she wasn't being followed. Every so often, she would pull out a slip of paper and check her course against the directions she had scribbled there.

_ Down Winston, a right on Woodland, turn onto Albert, then Richmond... _

Eventually, she located the address she had been searching for. A small building, not luxurious but not grubby either, stood in front of her, rising three stories into the sky. A quaint cobble path snaked calmly between two modest beds of grass, connecting the street to the main entry. The front door sported a tarnished brass handle and a decorative letter sign which hung from a tack pounded into the old wood.

With a faint smile, Hermione ambled up the unassuming path, tugged open the front door, and entered, climbing the stairs to the second floor. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she lifted her hand and rapped on the door to unit three.

From inside arose an audible shuffling of feet and rustling of clothes. Then, there was a small click, and the door was pulled open.

"Her —Hermione?"

Ron Weasley stood in the doorway, half-cast in shadow from the lighting behind him, staring at her in shock.

Her previous smile morphed into something else as she scrunched up her lips, working her jaw in an effort to keep her composure. "Ron —hi," she said lamely. She knew she was embarrassingly close to becoming all emotional.

"Hermione..." he repeated, shaking his head in confusion and a bit of wonder, but not displeasure. "Why are you here?"

_ Charming as always _ , she thought with a bit of exasperation and a touch of amusement.  _ Some things would never change. _

"And —how did you know where I live?"

Previous concerns of over-emotional displays flew from her head, instead to be replaced by a healthy mix of embarrassment and abashment. "I, umm, checked the Ministry records."

"The Ministry...? How did you —"

"Never mind that," she said hurriedly. "Can I come in?"

Ron flushed and sneaked a glance over his shoulder. "Yeah, yeah of course." He backed up from the door and pulled it open all the way, waving her inside. "Sorry about the mess... I wasn't expecting company..."

Hermione stepped through the doorway, taking a moment to gather her surroundings. Hanging on the side wall of the small den were two familiar, and flamboyant, Chudley Cannons posters, each featuring a player whose name seemed to change every time Hermione tried to humour her friend by asking him to identify them. The posters were quite garish, an obscene mix of clashing oranges and reds, loudly contrasting to the warm afternoon light filtering through the large window situated directly between them. A few pieces of clothing were scattered here and there on the floor; a Wizarding Wireless played softly from a shelf built into the wall opposite her.

"Here," he said, picking up a stack of flattened shirts from the yellow sofa and carrying it through a doorway into an unseen room. After a brief moment, he reemerged and awkwardly gestured for her to sit in the spot that had been recently freed.

"I, err..." he started, rubbing the back of his neck. "Don't get me wrong, it's good, really good, to see you, but what's going on? Why are you here?"

"I —I've missed you, Ron," she said with a sigh.

"You can't have," he said darkly. "Not after I went off on you at the..." he trailed off. "I deserve it."

"I have," said Hermione, quite confidently. "You said some stupid things. We both did, I imagine. But... things just haven't been the same without you around."

"Don't I know it," he said off-handedly. "Listen, I was a complete arse —"

"Ron, it's —"

"No, let me explain." Ron tugged at the collar of his faded shirt. "I... I panicked, I dunno. You and me and Harry, we were always tight, but seventh year just felt so strained. It was like something had happened and I'd missed it. It felt like you and Harry had grown up over the summer and I hadn't, and I was left behind or something."

By now, he was rambling, but she let him continue.

"And you and him were invited to the Slug Club, and you'd become friends with Rowe, and... it seemed like things between you and me had gotten so strained. I was scared that soon it would all fall apart. And when Ha —when he died... I just thought it'd be easier to jump the inevitable so that it didn't drag out until it ended with some huge row that we'd both regret for the rest of our lives..."

Hermione was quiet for a bit. Then, she jumped up and flung her arms around his neck, squeezing him probably too tightly. Ron, for his part, hesitantly brought his hands around to pat her awkwardly on the back. Eventually, she pulled back and, with a slight flush in her cheeks, took her seat once more.

An engorged silence filled the space between them as Hermione fought for something to say. Then, she started to pick at the hem of her black robes, and began to speak quietly. "You know, I sent letters to you and Ezra. You didn't respond. Either of you. And it... was weird. I hadn't realised you had both gone to Auror training."

Weasley looked at the floor. "Fat lot of good it did. The whole system is bollocks. The Ministry doesn't want people like me —they want Parkinson, Yaxley, Boot. They want blind followers."

"But you went for the right reasons," said Hermione softly. "You went because you wanted to help; to fight back. That's why you're a good man. That's why Harry and I put up with you all the time," she finished with a smile tickling at her lips.

Ron ducked his head, but the tips of his ears glowed red. After a moment, he cleared his throat and fixed her with a ponderous stare, clearly intent to change the subject. "So... Rowe, huh?"

"Ezra? Yeah, I mailed him a letter too."

"That wasn't what I meant."

Hermione had the decency to look abashed.

"You know, I always thought you had a bit of a thing for him." 

She blushed, but didn't refute the observation. "We never did anything, Ron."

"I don't know if you noticed," Ron started, "but... I didn't really like him at first" —Hermione snorted—"but he's a good guy. I'm happy for you."

Hermione regarded her friend with a warm smile. "Thanks, Ron."

#

Ezra was jumpy. Far too jumpy.

He was nervously seated at the large table they had set up in the middle of the warehouse some days ago. He anxiously awaited their return, nerves frayed to hell, heart in his throat as he waited, waited, and waited.

Twenty-five minutes of waiting. Twenty-five minutes of torturous, aggravating, waiting. He didn't deserve this; he deserved to be out there, fighting, taking back what had been taken from him. But no, he was stuck here.

Waiting.

He ignored Cho and the other former prisoners that had been rescued from the clutches of the Ministry. Now they were patients at a warehouse in God-knows-where; still prisoners, but just in a different way.

He ignored Ted and Andromeda Tonks as they tended to the injured; first cooking food and preparing tea, then helping serve it to them; then cleaning up before finally heading back to their own home.

He just sat there, waiting. Waiting for them to come home.

After an interminably long time, an orchestra of  _ CRACK _ s filled the room as the raiding party finally returned. Ezra jumped up from his seat and unconsciously sought out the number one priority in his mind. Upon locating her, he heaved a sigh of relief, but then looked at her again, this time more closely —she was bleeding. He ran forward, intent to heal what he could, but then he noticed that she wasn't the only one injured.

"What the hell happened?"

McGonagall, Tonks, and Robbins were all sporting various injuries —bruises, cuts, gashes, and even what looked like a broken wrist for Tonks. Hermione had apparently fared no better. On the other hand, Mad-Eye Moody wasn't—

Ezra's breath hitched. Where was Moody? He looked around the group, desperately hoping he had simply overlooked the old man.

"Where is he?"

No one seemed to move. All of them studiously avoided his gaze.

"WHERE IS MOODY?" Ezra repeated, unconsciously emitting a whiplash of magical energy which cracked the table he had been sitting at.

"It was a trap," Robbins finally said. His voice was completely lifeless, and he couldn't even meet Ezra's eyes. "They were waiting when we arrived."

"Alastor knew as soon as we landed that it was a bust," said McGonagall, clearly restraining any emotion from seeping into her voice. "He ordered us out, but they'd already cast anti-Portkey wards. We had to fight our way out. And once we were far enough away, he covered us while we activated our Portkeys. I thought he would follow us, but..." The last half of her statement went unsaid. "There were at least a dozen of them."

"We need to..." Ezra started, but when Hermione shook her head, he knew what he needed to know.

"He killed three or four of them by the time we'd Portkeyed out, but... One of the Aurors got off a Killing Curse that he wasn't able to block."

Ezra was shaking. He couldn't see straight. He began to stumble backward until he hit his chair and collapsed into it.

Hermione gave the others a deflated look, then walked toward Ezra. When she was within arm's reach, she took his hand in hers, and Apparated both of them to his flat.

When they arrived, Hermione immediately pulled him into a hug. There was dirt and blood smeared all over her robes, but he didn't care. He buried his head deep into her hair.

After the longest time, he whispered to her: "I just want this all to be over."

"I know."

#

Indigo 9733 was tired. Not the kind of tired that would be fixed by a cup of coffee, or a good night's sleep. The kind of tired that seeped into one's bones, that spread through one's veins, that swaddled one's very soul.

The end was nearing. The end of a story that was difficult to tell, and impossible to live.

However, he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. He was nearly there.

"What are you thinking, Indigo?" Unspeakable Magus sat stiffly, perched on the edge of his seat with alarmingly good posture, hands folded in his lap, simply staring at the man across from him. It seemed that he would be equally comfortable sitting there for a minute, or an hour, or a week.

"It's exhausting, you know," responded Indigo, quietly. "Living up to one's expectations. And then reliving it all in a single evening."

"We've been here quite some time. I have learned so much from you this evening. I think what you are feeling is entirely understandable."

Indigo 9733 stroked his chin for a minute in thought. "Magus, may I ask you a question?"

"I suppose."

"Why did you decide to become an Unspeakable?"

"That, unfortunately, is private," he said, scratching a few more lines on his notes. "You may, however, ask a different question."

"I must admit, I've been curious since I first got here." Indigo leaned in and jerked his chin toward the quill that the Magus was holding. "There's a recording orb —so why are you writing?"

"It helps me to think," he said stubbornly as he scraped the point of the quill on the parchment, trying to align the tip with the grain of the page.

"You know you could just get a new one," said Indigo, with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

The Unspeakable's hand jerked. "What?"

"The quill. If it's not working..."

"There's nothing wrong with my quill; it simply has character. Nothing in this world is perfect, and we should accept things as they are, faults and all. Besides," he added with what surely must have been a frown, "it's my favourite quill."


	13. Blood of the Press

Hermione had opted to skip lunch today, and was instead relaxing in her office as she perused today's issue of  _ The Quibbler _ . By now, it came to no surprise for her that the front page was filled with news about recent attacks, despite Luna's initial hesitance on the matter.

_**Vicious Attack in Nottingham Leaves Nineteen Dead!** _

_ Last night, at just after 10pm in Nottingham, local pub The Smiling Sphinx was attacked by several wizards, who were allegedly dressed entirely in white with red, pointed hats. Within minutes, the wizards killed over a dozen Muggle-born citizens who had been secretly meeting in a private room at the pub. It is unclear how these wizards knew the whereabouts _ _ — _

"Ah-hah!" an immensely annoying voice yelled as the office door slammed open.

Hermione —Janet—jumped up from her seat, letting her copy of  _ The Quibbler _ fall to the desk.

"What are you doing with that contraband?" Umbridge asked. "That rubbish is not allowed on Ministry premises."

"Ch —Chief Warlock..." Janet stuttered, "this is saying that there have been attacks all over Britain!"

"Silly girl —"

"Aren't we doing something to stop them?"

Umbridge's face turned red, and she worked her mouth open and shut until she finally regained her voice. "Don't —don't you dare interrupt me!"

Janet ducked her head, covering her mouth with her hands. "I'm sorry..." she mumbled.

"This 'Quabbler' is utter rubbish, just like the paper it's printed on. There are no attacks, and there is nothing to be concerned about."

"But, Ma'am," Janet squeaked, looking for all the world like a hysterical teenaged girl, "my cousin is in Nottingham... she just posted this morning —her best friend was  _ killed _ !"

Dolores Umbridge fixed her with a dangerous glare. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"Oh, no, Chief Warlock —"

"Come with me immediately." Umbridge grabbed her tightly by the wrist and dragged her out of the office and through the long maze of hallways. People stared as they passed by, and Hermione felt genuinely mortified —she felt like she was in primary school, being dragged to the headmaster's office by an irate teacher.

Eventually, they arrived at Umbridge's office. She was swept inside, and the door banged shut behind her.

"Sit down."

Hermione sat, her heart beating so fast she was sure Umbridge would be able to see it through her robes. The woman looked utterly livid.

Umbridge began to dig in one of her drawers, clearly looking for something she had misplaced. When she found what she was looking for —a long, black quill—she slammed the drawer shut, causing a small puff of air to travel across the office. A silvery piece of fabric, wedged in the corner of a bookshelf, fluttered in the temporary wind, catching Hermione's eye. She gasped—she would know that fabric anywhere. It was Harry's invisibility cloak.

"You need to be taught a lesson, my dear," said Umbridge, not having noticed the girl's unrelated revelation. "The only thing worse than bringing illegal substances into my Ministry, is a  _ liar _ . And you, Miss Hunter, are a liar. I do not tolerate liars."

The Chief Warlock handed the quill to Hermione, who stared at it, uncomprehending.

"You are to write, one thousand times on this parchment, 'I must not tell lies.'"

Hermione's mind finally caught up to her, and she froze. She knew what the quill was. The blood drained from her face and she resisted every urge to throw the quill at Umbridge's face and hex the bitch.

"Go on," she added with a simper. "You'll find that you won't be needing any ink."

Hermione bit her tongue and wrote the first line on the parchment:

_ I must not tell lies. _

After a moment, she felt the sharp tip of an invisible quill cut into the skin on the back of her hand, tracing out exactly the words she had just written. The cuts began to bleed, but after a moment, the blood vanished and the cuts healed themselves, leaving her skin nearly unmarred.

She gritted her teeth, and began to write the next line.

#

Ezra stared as the rain pelted his window. Fat droplets of water smashed into the glass pane and then slowly slid down, eventually meeting their fate at the window sill. There, each droplet ceased to exist. Perhaps Dumbledore would say that it simply joined its brethren on the next great adventure.

Either way, its future was rather bleak.

If only Ezra knew what his own future held.

Two fat raindrops, mere millimetres apart, caught his eye, and he brought his finger to the glass, tracing them as they raced to the bottom of the window.

"Ezra."

He whipped around, thrusting his arm and wand into the air in salute. "Yes, Sir!"

The look on Hermione's face was priceless.

"Oh... Sorry." He flushed.

Hermione seemed to be biting her cheeks to keep herself from laughing, but she quickly sobered when she saw the despondent look in his eyes. "What's wrong?"

"Just... the usual. This war." He gestured toward the window pane, as if that explained everything. "Do you think it'll ever end?"

Hermione went to stand beside him at the window. "Yes. It has to. Even if it's not while we're alive." She studied his face as he stared blindly out of the window. "Do you ever regret it?"

"What?"

"You know..." she said, hesitating. "The war. Everything you did. Everything you've done."

The silence was palpable, but not uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because it was backgrounded by the calm patter of rain. Or perhaps it was because of the company.

"No," he finally said. Succinct, but confident.

"I —really?" Hermione interlaced her hands and twiddled her thumbs. "You started all of this because you believed that people deserved better. That deep down, somewhere, there was some good in this world. That... it was the right thing to do." The tears pooling in her eyes were camouflaged by the reflection of raindrops from the window onto her face. "But every day, this world becomes more sickening."

"I do think it's the right thing to do. And yes, that is why I started fighting," said Ezra. His voice felt emotionless, not because he felt no emotion, but because he knew what would happen if he let it all go. "But soon after I started, things changed... I kept fighting, not because of some misplaced faith in the goodness of the world —but because a single person in my life kept me going. A single person that has anchored me as I've struggled to make sense of this stupid, bigoted world."

Slowly, gently, he brought his hand to her chin and tilted it up, then gazed deep into her eyes.

"You. You've been here for me from the very beginning. You've kept me going. And 'til the day I die, how can I regret that?"

Hermione's breath hitched, and tears were now running freely down her face. But she didn't reach up to wipe them. Instead, she grabbed Ezra's hand with her own and brought it from her chin to her chest, placing it between her breasts; inviting him to feel the emotions she was feeling, whatever they were.

Ezra could feel her heart thumping wildly —just like his was. 

How long they stood like that, he didn't know, but eventually, he tore his eyes from her face and looked down at her hand covering his. He squinted, trying to see it better in the moonlight. 

"What happened to your hand?"

"Oh, nothing," she said, moving to pull her hand away. But before she could do so, he grabbed it and held it up to the light.

"It's... Umbridge had you use her quill?!" he hissed.

Heaving a great sigh, Hermione nodded. "Please don't worry about me. I can handle her." She pulled him into a hug, perhaps to distract him from the matter at hand.

He murmured into her ear: "She won't get away with it. I'll see to it."

"No, Ezra," she whispered back. "That bitch is mine."

#

Dolores eagerly ripped open the letter. Ever since the attack on Nottingham three days ago, she had been riding high. Her "associate" had proven his worth, and his fidelity. She had mailed him two days ago with a rather bold request, even she had to admit that. Unfortunately, she was forced to rely on him, as ancient Ministry laws physically prevented her from undertaking certain actions herself.

But she was sure he was up to the task.

With a chuckle, she began to read her letter:

_ Chief Umbridge, _

_ I trust you are convinced of my authenticity. _

_ I must say, your request is rather audacious. I would very much like to send you a gift to central London, but, admittedly, travelling is difficult _ _ —and expensive. I think that 50,000 Galleons would sufficiently cover the cost. _

_ Sincerely, _   
_ Your Associate _

Fifty thousand Galleons? Dolores frowned. That was rather steep. What did he take her for —a fool?

No, she would not be paying fifty thousand Galleons. But, she was sure, he would have known that.

_ To My Associate, _

_ As you might imagine, 50,000 Galleons is a laughable request. I believe that 20,000 is a more appropriate sum. _

_ Do not try to negotiate with me. _

Once she sent off the letter, it was largely a waiting game. Dolores didn't attend so much as a meeting on Thursday, so anxious was she to hear back from her mysterious benefactor. She knew that he would likely take several days to respond, but that didn't ease her nerves any.

When Friday came around, she decided to take the day off, for fear that she would say something suspect to Cornelius —or worse, a subordinate.

Eventually, the weekend passed, then Monday, and finally Tuesday. As she'd done every morning, Dolores rushed into her office as soon as humanly possible and checked her inbox. Finally, he had responded. She ripped open the envelope —

_ I suppose that is acceptable. Have the money transferred to account HG17354. _

It was short and sweet, just how she liked it. 

With a cheshire grin, she picked up her quill and scratched off a quick note for Gringotts.

#

An alarm began to ring through the Auror office, throwing Ezra out of his focus as he filled out more requisition forms. That was a lie, actually —there was no focus to throw him out of. He usually zoned out entirely when filling out requisition forms.

"Bloody hell, not this shit again," whined Hughes.

"Director on the floor!" Boot screamed.

As always, a multitude of shouts and clangs filled the room as Aurors scrambled to line up. Ezra jumped up and raced toward the entryway, joining formation and extending his arm in salute.

Augustus Rookwood stalked in, followed by Archcommander Langley and Captain Sanders.

This didn't bode well.

" _ Au commande _ !" Langley called. 

Rookwood stepped forward, flexing his arm as he did so. He had lost the arm last month in the fight with Kingsley; the healers had reattached it successfully, but it seemed to cause him occasional stiffness and pain.

"As of twelve minutes ago, the Ministry has closed Gringotts. Although we can't force the goblins to actually close the bank, we have stationed Aurors outside the grounds of the bank to prevent entry. It's a frangible situation, but the goblins know they can't set foot on Diagon Alley. However, there are already protests forming, and we're to quell them. Get your riot gear —we leave in sixty seconds!"

Heart thudding, Ezra rushed over to the closets built into the far wall and withdrew the battle staff and dragon hide vest that were stored in his locker. He quickly donned the vest and ran to join the other Aurors at the staging area.

Langley looked at his watch and tapped the butt of his own staff on the ground. "Double file!"

The Aurors arranged themselves accordingly, each holding his staff with both hands at an angle across the chest.

"Three, two, one —now!"

As a unit, eighteen Aurors Apparated to the foot of Diagon Alley.

"Testudo!" Sanders barked.

Ezra pointed his staff to his left flank and said, " _ Protego Legio, Protego Totalus _ ." A brilliant red forcefield, rectangular in shape and just barely translucent, sprang forth from the spiralled tip of his staff, directed outward toward the rowdy citizens. It spanned over a metre in width, overlapping easily with similar shields erected by Weasley in front of him and Bennett behind him. To his right, the other column of Aurors had raised barriers protecting their right flank.

"Forward!"

Civilians shouted, screamed, scrambled as the block of Aurors began to march; anyone who didn't give way was mercilessly shoved aside. Intermittent spells bounced harmlessly off of the Aurors' raised shields, much to the amusement of Hughes and Parkinson who were heckling the passers-by.

One civilian was more courageous than the others. He leaned in close to the Aurors and magnified his voice. "Down with the Auror force! Down with Rookwood!"

With a flick of his wand, Rookwood immediately dispatched the man. More screams rent the air as several people circled the fallen protester only to find that he would not be getting back up.

Eventually, the group reached the steps of Gringotts. The Aurors already there seemed quite relieved to have backup. On command, Ezra broke ranks and lined up against the steps of the bank, careful not to touch them, facing his Legion Shield outward toward the mass of rioting wizards.

When the Aurors were in position, Rookwood magnified his voice and spoke. "As of noon today, the Ministry of Magic has deemed Gringotts unsafe. All travel to and from Gringotts bank is suspended indefinitely."

A cry of jeers, boos, and more than a few spell explosions, rose from the gathered crowd.

"Please calmly go about your day. Do not loiter. Any civil disobedience will be dealt with swiftly and harshly."

#

"I'm sure the goblins were not pleased," the Unspeakable said. The glimmer of a smirk could be heard in his voice.

A snort escaped Indigo. "That is quite the understatement. But what could they do? Their relationship with the Ministry was tenuous at best. The goblins controlled our economy, yes —but the Ministry controlled their livelihood."

"Surely the goblins had  _ some _ clout with the Ministry, seeing as they were our only allies for, what, hundreds of years?"

"Allies?" Indigo said with no little incredulity. "The goblins had no allies: only business associates. Greedy, filthy creatures, goblins. I assure you, whatever partnership your Ministry currently has with the goblins, they're only looking for ways to bleed you dry."

The Unspeakable shifted in his seat. Then, he abruptly excused himself.

After a long, and uncomfortable, ten minutes —during which Indigo found himself doing anything he could to not look at the Praesix guards standing watch over him—the Unspeakable returned.

"Given your history with the goblins, I thought it would be only fair to tell you..."

Indigo stared at the man before him, eyes narrowed to slits. "Tell me what?"

"Twelve years ago, the goblins abdicated Gringotts, and the Ministry of Magic assumed control of the wizarding economy."

#

It was another late night at the office, though this one was particularly late. Ezra had never approved of her self-inflicted overtime, but even he had recognised that tonight's agenda was a necessity.

The work was mind-numbingly boring. Each form was filled out, signed, and moved into the outbox, repeated  _ ad infinitum _ . Any other day, she would have been thrilled to do this —who didn't like taking chaos and organising it into something understandable?—but tonight, her mind kept wandering to the job ahead. She spared a glance at the clock above the door: thirteen more minutes. Thirteen minutes of pure agony that she had to wade through as she desperately prayed for time to speed itself up.

When there were six minutes remaining, Hermione huffed, slammed her Ministry-approved quill onto the desk, and stood up. A quick spell switched her robes to something a bit more snug and generally more comfortable to move around in. Then, she gathered her things into the bottomless bag she had slung over her shoulder. A final inspection of the office confirmed that she hadn't left anything of importance behind. After all, this was the last time she would ever see this office. 

With one minute to go, Hermione brought her hands to the top of her head, taking in deep breaths as she tried to calm her erratically beating heart. She was cold, hands clammy, goose pimples dancing on her arms —and her knees quivered such that it took significant effort just to keep standing.

At long last, the clock struck 1:18 am. It was time to go.

As slowly as humanly possible, Hermione eased the office door open. When the gap was just barely big enough, she squeezed through and began to pull the door shut behind her. The only sound that betrayed her was the small  _ click _ as the door latched shut.

Hermione took a moment to ensure that her green sash was securely in place and her bag was hooked comfortably on her shoulder. Satisfied, she began navigating the labyrinth of corridors that would lead her to the other end of the building.

Just as Hermione reached the north quadrant of the facility, she spotted two Aurors ahead. The patrol was approaching her, and in the next thirty seconds or so, they would cross paths. She couldn't make out their faces in the darkness, but she would just have to trust the plan.

As the Aurors passed her by, she nodded respectfully at them. "Aurors."

"Hold it."

Resisting the urge to bolt, Hermione stopped in her tracks. After taking a deep breath, she slowly turned to face the Auror who had spoken.

"Identification, please," the Auror said, "and make it quick."

Hermione reached into her robes to retrieve her papers and handed them over. The man flicked through them, nodding here and there at various places in the docket.

"Miss Hunter," he said tiredly, "Ministry employees are not exempt from curfew."

"Yes, sorry, I have authorisation for the evening." She handed him another piece of parchment, this one, an allowance for post-curfew movement valid for twenty-four hours. It was signed, of course, by Auror Ezra Rowe.

"Very well, Miss. Carry on." 

"Thanks..." she muttered.

The patrol swept away without another word.

After counting to five in her head, Hermione turned around and silently stunned the Auror who had asked for her identification. The man anticlimactically crumpled to the floor with a soft  _ thud _ .

The other Auror drew his wand and knelt down to feel his partner's pulse.

"Impressive," Robbins said. "We better get going, though. He'll be up in ten or fifteen minutes."

The unlikely duo raced down the hallway until they skidded to a stop in front of Umbridge's office. Robbins pulled out an Exploding Snap card and stared at it dubiously. "Are you sure about this?"

Hermione chewed on her lip. "Like, seventy percent. She has personal wards on her office that only Aurors can bypass —she was bragging about it the other day. And when the raid alarm goes off, it should disable her other wards."

Robbins looked unsure, but acquiesced. "We'll only have two minutes, tops."

She nodded.

Robbins turned his wand onto the office door, murmuring a spell that caused it to unlock and swing open. Then, he waved his wand, banishing the card into the office.

As the card travelled unimpeded through the doorway, Hermione released a tight breath she didn't realise she'd been holding. That had been the most finicky part of the plan.

A half second later, the card collided with one of the gaudy cat paintings on the far wall of the office; it exploded with a shock wave that didn't do much more than shake the other portraits that hung in the office. However, it was still enough to trigger the Ministry's raid alarm, which began to blare throughout the entire building.

"Let's go!" Robbins shouted over the deafening noise, jerking his head in the direction of the office.

Hermione didn't need to be told twice. She sprinted inside and immediately aimed for the bookshelf in the back corner, nearly crashing into the damn thing as she tried to scramble to a stop. She tugged Harry's invisibility cloak free from its position behind a stack of cat-care books, then joined Robbins as he frantically searched through the woman's desk.

All of a sudden, Robbins held a key up in the dim light emanating from the ceiling.

With the alarm still blaring, Hermione couldn't hear what he was saying, but she snatched the key from his hand and examined it. Yes... yes, this was it. She flashed him a thumbs-up and made to get the hell out.

As she was nearing the exit, a large, three-dimensional image of a cat suddenly appeared in front of her. The cat was quite ugly; it wore a deep scowl and bared its yellow teeth at her. Instinctively, Hermione yelped and jumped back, crashing into the wall behind her, causing all of the portraits and certificates that used to hang there to... not. They fell straight to the ground, many of them shattering, tearing, or ripping. With a groan, Hermione pulled herself to her feet, and was about to follow Robbins out when she caught sight of a hole in the wall. No, not a hole —but a safe.

Robbins tapped her on the shoulder and held up three fingers —she had less than thirty seconds. Hermione nodded and quickly transfigured the safe's deadbolt into sand, then yanked open the door. Sitting in the middle of the safe was a small, grey book that had clearly seen better days. Hermione's eyes narrowed as she read the title, and she nicked the book. The only other thing in the safe—stuffed in the very back—was a pile of what must have been a hundred Black Quills. A sudden rage flooded her, and she resisted the strong urge to blow up the safe right then and there. That would be a quite fatal mistake. Instead, she flicked her wand to ignite them, quickly closed the safe, and flash-welded all of the joints shut.

"Run!" she screamed over the din of the alarm.

As they sprinted from the room, she heard —and definitely felt—an immense magical explosion, accompanied by an inhumane, ethereal wailing. She was glad she had sealed the safe; even then, Umbridge's office would need some serious repairs.

"Go!" Hermione shouted, shoving Robbins away. "Get out!"

Robbins didn't bother responding; he hightailed it back down the corridor toward where she had stunned his partner.

Hermione donned the invisibility cloak —a welcome boon—and began to run in the opposite direction: she had to get out of the Ministry. Already she could hear angry shouts and thundering footsteps as Aurors sprinted toward Umbridge's office in the hopes of finding out what had set off the alarm.

As she left the scene of the crime, small groups of Aurors raced past her. Each time, she squeezed against the wall, holding her breath and sucking her stomach in, hoping that none would notice her.

Once clear of (she hoped) all of the Aurors, Hermione briskly walked to the lifts, entering the one nearest her and directing it to the atrium level. When the doors opened, she searched the foyer for any signs of life. Surprisingly, suspiciously, there was no one. With a quick thanks to whatever deity was orchestrating her escape, Hermione made her way to the Apparition point, and finally disappeared from the Ministry of Magic.

"Do you have it?" Luna asked, uncharacteristically direct, as soon as Hermione blinked into being in the middle of their warehouse.

Hermione nodded, dropping her bag to the ground and checking that the key was still in her pocket. 

"Come on, then." 

Hermione and Tonks each grabbed one of Luna's arms, and they Apparated away. Though each would provide her own magic to power the Apparition, Luna would lead the way for all three of them.

The trio landed behind a large, grassy knoll that was startlingly beautiful. If Hermione hadn't been on such an important mission, she might have taken some time to appreciate its natural beauty. Instead, she looked around for their target, but could see nothing indicating its presence. "Are you sure it's here?"

Luna gasped as if slapped. "Of course it is. Why would I bring us here if it wasn't?"

Tonks furrowed her brow and then waved her wand in a large circle around her. At first, nothing happened, but then slowly, the hill in front of them began to shimmer and morph; it grew taller, wider, and squarer —it was becoming a  _ building _ .

So much for natural beauty.

"How..." Hermione was momentarily speechless. "How did you know where this was?"

"It's a long story, but I suppose I can tell you now." Luna sat down cross-legged and patted the patch of grass next to her, imploring the others to join her. "You see, when Daddy was fourteen, he was —"

"Luna, maybe you can tell us later?" Hermione felt almost guilty for interrupting her. "We really have to get going."

"Oh. Well, alright then."

The three women approached a small, wooden door with symbols carved into the slats, and Hermione inserted the little key into the keyhole, jostling it, then twisting it. A small  _ click _ could be heard from within the mechanism, and a gust of energy rushed over her as the protection charms were deactivated.

Not wanting to spend any more time in the open than necessary, Hermione pulled the door open and slipped inside, quickly followed by the others. A survey of the room left her head spinning: some thousands of different machines were arranged in various configurations all around the room, which must have easily been hundreds of metres wide. Some of the machines were active, spinning away. Others idled, apparently waiting for input from a technician or perhaps a spell. "This is... incredible."

"It really is," Luna said, before setting off in a direction that seemed to only make sense to her.

Hermione and Tonks were quick to follow. This was not a good place to get lost in.

"There are hundreds of printing presses in the building," Luna explained as she expertly weaved her way around different machines. "They all use the same exact forme molds, which are magically constructed from the master galley stored in the composition room. The  _ Prophet _ is a massive operation, which means that years ago, most of the manual labour in the process was supplanted by magic. That's why there's no one here right now —and that's why it's actually relatively simple to do what we want to do."

After many minutes of weaving and dodging, they finally came to a stop in front of a door. Emblazoned on the header plate was an elegant text that said  _ COMPOSITION _ . On the door itself was a sign:

_**Do Not Enter** _

"Too late," Luna giggled as she pushed the door open.

The room was quite ostentatiously large, but it was mostly bare except for the very centre of the room, where a collection of some thirty or forty iron podiums huddled together in a sort of grid formation. Upon each podium sat a wooden plate, horizontal to the ground, nearly a metre in length and half that in width.

"These are the galleys," Luna explained, "one per page. Now, we need to find the one for the front page..."

After a minute, Tonks shouted from the other side of the grid. "Here it is!"

Luna stuck her arm into her satchel —it must have been expanded to be bigger on the inside—and dug around. Finally, she pulled her hand back out; in it was a small wooden plate that looked just like a miniature version of one of the galleys arranged on the podiums. " _ Engorgio _ ," she whispered.

Once the plate had expanded to normal size, Luna waved her wand again, removing the original plate from the podium and replacing it with her own, improved version.

"Perfect."

Hermione stared at the grid, her eyebrows furrowed. "Is... is that it?"

"That's it," Luna confirmed with a sweet smile. "Were you hoping it would be more complicated?"

#

The morning was young, and the Ministry quiet. Nascent beams of fake sunlight streamed in through the magical windows built into the upper walls of the lobby.

A sharp  _ crack! _ shattered the morning silence, and Dolores Umbridge appeared in the middle of the Apparition point. A quick look around confirmed that no one else was here. She smiled. Peace and quiet.

When she had started rising in the ranks of the Ministry, Dolores had quickly learned the benefits of arriving bright and early. It afforded her the highly valuable quiet time she needed to actually get anything done. More importantly, however, it allowed her to avoid interacting with the simpletons that ceaselessly pestered her with questions and demands that, surely, someone else could address.

Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply. Ah —the Ministry of Magic. The place to be.

Dolores had barely taken two steps forward when an Auror —Jamison was his name, she was pretty sure—ran up to her, yelling her name like he was some sort of rock band fan girl.

"Chief Umbridge! Chief Umbridge!" The Auror skidded to a stop in front of her, and leaned over, hands on his knees, to catch his breath.

"What is it?" she snipped. 

"We've been trying to reach you all night —"

"I have a very strict policy, Auror, that I am not to be disturbed at home."

"I know, but —please come with me." Jamison turned and led her across the long foyer she would have crossed anyway, up the lift she would have taken anyway, and down the maze of corridors she would have traversed anyway. Surely Augustus didn't pay this man to simply be an obnoxious tour guide.

When they finally turned the last corner before her office, Dolores gasped. The entirety of the floor, ceiling, and walls along the length of the hallway had been blackened. Soot covered most of the flat surfaces in the vicinity; ashes, some still glowing faintly, were scattered across the ground; entire chunks of brick and concrete were missing from their rightful positions.

To add to the chaos, a steady stream of Aurors filtered in and out of her office, some shouting orders, others casting diagnostic spells, and still others carrying boxes full of things which probably didn't function anymore.

Afraid of what she would see, Dolores inched toward the door to her office, and once she got close enough, peeked inside. It appeared to have been almost entirely levelled.

"What the hell happened?!" she squeaked.

"There was an explosion last night, Ma'am," Jamison said with an entirely redundant gesture toward the office. "We've determined that several Black Quills ignited; the resulting explosion took out the entire office."

"And you waited until the next  _ day _ to tell me this?" Spittle flew from her mouth and landed on the Auror's face, but he didn't seem to notice; or, he was smart enough not to react.

"Ma'am, we weren't able to —"

"Jamison," she hissed, "listen to me very carefully. If the next words out of your mouth are not 'I am going to go repair every square millimetre of your office, Chief Warlock,' I am going to go down to Augustus' office and have a little chat with him about the future of your career as an Auror. Do you understand me?"

He opened his mouth to respond in the affirmative, but upon seeing the look in her eye, he reconsidered. "I am going to go repair every square millimetre of your office, Chief Warlock."

Dolores' murderous expression morphed into one of false delight, complete with a phony smile that exposed many more teeth than necessary. "That's what I thought."

She needed a pick-me-up. And it was far too early for Firewhiskey. Maybe she could go see Augustus anyway. No, she decided, he probably wasn't even in yet, the lazy slug. That did give her an idea, though. It was still early enough in the morning that neither Shellman nor that airhead Hunter would be in. Maybe she would snag her daily dose of good news early on.  _ The Quibbler _ would have already arrived, provided Hunter was stupid enough to have it delivered to the office.

When Dolores arrived at room 2171, she pulled open the door and quickly slipped inside. Sure enough, the tabloid was already lying there, folded and secured with a piece of thread, on Shellman's desk. With a gratified giggle, she snatched it and unfolded it, eyeing the front page for any news that would be of interest to her. As she did so, her eyes were drawn to the one —and only—article printed on the front page. She narrowed her eyes in confusion, then uncertainty, and then finally, as understanding began to set in, her face slowly blanched. 

She collapsed back onto the girl's desk chair, and then read through the front page again. Frantic, she flipped through the other pages of the issue, hoping that maybe one of them would indicate that it was all just a very elaborate hoax. Then, when nothing obvious popped out at her, she once again read the article that monopolised the entirety of the front page:

_**The Swindler is Swindled: The Tale of Chief Warlock Dolores Umbridge** _

_ Nearly four months ago, the Dark Lord Voldemort, the worst threat to humanity that has ever disgraced this Earth, was vanquished by Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, Saviour of Magical Britain. However, instead of lauding him for his contribution to the world, the Ministry of Magic vilified him, defamed and slandered his very memory. Our current Chief Warlock, Dolores Umbridge, even went so far as to pass a new law just so she could steal what remained of Harry Potter's minimal assets. _

_ In the name of justice, a plan was set forth to recover the money that had been so cowardly stolen from Mr Potter. Hermione Granger, a good friend of Mr Potter, posed as a contract hit wizard via post and established a rapport with Madam Umbridge. After a series of exchanged letters, Madam Umbridge requested that this mysterious associate instigate an attack on Muggle-borns in central London, offering 20,000 Galleons to do so. _

_ That's right, dear reader. Madam Umbridge attempted to pay someone off to attack Muggle-borns in the most populous city in Britain, knowing full well that Ministry law prevented her from doing the dirty deed herself. _

_ Little did Madam Umbridge know that her mysterious colleague is no hit wizard at all, but rather a teenage girl barely out of school. The best part? Hermione Granger is a Muggle-born herself. _

_ We encourage our readers to explore the documents photographed below, including all letter correspondence as well as the signed Gringotts form authorising the monetary transaction. _

"Hermione —Jane—Granger," she hissed through clenched teeth. Her heart was racing, temple throbbing, ears roaring. She could barely see the newspaper—flashes of red engulfed her vision. Oh, that bitch had crossed the line. She would find her and choke the life out of her.

The window behind her began to rattle as tufts of stray magic seeped out of her. Dolores knew she had to calm down. If she were found in this office, shattering windows and destroying furniture, people would start to talk. 

That was the most important part —that people didn't talk. And now that she had framed it that way, she realised the situation wasn't as bad as it seemed.  _ The Quibbler _ was rubbish —no one even read it, and those that did weren't exactly the most trustworthy of specimens. The tabloid was even banned on Ministry premises, which was her saving grace.

Taking a deep breath, Dolores patted her hair lightly, ensuring that the curls were done up just right. With a frown, she reached into the pocket of her cloak and retrieved a small bottle of perfume, which she puffed three times onto her neck. Much better. Mood lifted, Dolores ignited the laughable excuse for a newspaper and then got up, smoothing her robes unnecessarily. She stuck her head out of the door and looked both ways to confirm that no one was coming, then hustled out of the office, making her way promptly toward the lifts. She needed to speak with Cornelius.

It was nearing eight o'clock, which meant that the halls of the Ministry were beginning to liven up. Inconvenient, but not unbearable.

As she waited for her lift to arrive, Dolores heard a faint chuckle behind her.  _ Maybe chuckle-boy should be more respectful of others _ , she thought acridly.

Then, a whispered conversation and a shuffling of papers. She resisted the urge to turn around and give that boy a piece of her mind.

When her lift arrived, she breathed a sigh of irritation —or relief, whatever. Finally, a good thirty seconds of peace and quiet, away from those imbeciles who couldn't tell a wand from a spoon.

The lift gate opened on level one, and she was momentarily taken aback by the small crowd loitering nearby. Mostly department heads and other execs. The lively conversation abruptly ceased when she stepped out of the lifts, and several heads turned to stare at her.

"What are you looking at?" she snapped. A tall, foreign-looking woman (Dorcus? Dorkface? Whatever it was, it was a stupid name) snickered and looked back down at her copy of the  _ Prophet _ .

It was only then that Dolores realised that every person there had a copy of the  _ Prophet _ in their hands. With a growing sense of dread, she snatched the newspaper from the woman and nearly fainted when she saw the front page.

The entire article had been reprinted in the  _ Daily Prophet _ .

" **GRANGER** !"

#

The Unspeakable's head tilted as he pondered the story.

"So how did Miss Granger predict the attacks? Obviously she didn't incite them."

"There were no attacks, Magus." Indigo softly chuckled and then sipped from his glass. "The Ministry owned the  _ Prophet _ in all but name. But Luna owned  _ The Quibbler _ , in spirit  _ and _ in name."

The Unspeakable leaned forward, laying his hand flat on the table. "Miss Lovegood was printing phony issues of  _ The Quibbler _ for Miss Granger."

"Very good. I see your skills of deduction haven't dwindled."

The other wizard scoffed, and waved for him to continue.

"When Hermione left the Ministry that night, she knew she could never return. But she had accomplished what she had set out to do. Recovered Harry Potter's inheritance; disgraced Dolores Umbridge's name; and as a bonus, retrieved the invisibility cloak, which Umbridge had stolen from the battlefield the morning after Potter's death.

"Hermione proved once again that she was a force to be reckoned with. That she could take any situation and make the best of it. And most importantly of all, that, when necessary, she would stop at nothing to avenge her friends."

#

Dolores Umbridge stormed into the office, slamming the door behind her with such force that the portrait of Fudge fell from the wall, splitting in two when it hit the ground.

"I —want—Hermione Granger.  _ Now. _ "

The office was already somewhat crowded. Fudge and the Lord Marshal were deep in discussion, and scattered across the room were two more Praesix guards, an Unspeakable, Rookwood, and four of his Aurors.

Fudge turned to her and crafted a wide smile on his face. "Ah, just the woman I wanted to see..."

"Don't patronise me, Cornelius," she spat. "I am not in the mood."

"Dolores —"

"Listen up," she called to the room, ignoring the Minister's platitudes. "You are to do whatever it takes to find Hermione Granger and bring her to me —alive. I don't care how you find her. Kill everyone she's close to, everyone she's ever known: family, friends, pets. But most importantly,  _ FIND HER _ !"

Rookwood sighed. "Dolores, be reasonable. Much as I'd like to, we have no way of knowing where she could be right now."

"Then... track her Apparition!"

"That was hours ago —there's nothing left to track." Rookwood was beginning to sound whiny. Typical Rookwood.

Dolores turned to the Lord Marshal. "Marion, tell me you can do something about this."

The bearded man shook his head. "It's outside the purview of the Praesix command. We're not allowed —"

"Oh, bloody hell, must I do everything myself?"

Dolores turned on her heel and stalked toward the Minister's private lift. To her immense displeasure, the others in the room followed her, though she didn't comment on it.

When the lift arrived at the Department of Mysteries, she quickly navigated to the Scrying Room.

"Chief Warlock," the Unspeakable spoke for the first time, moving to stand between her and the scrying orb. "I —I can't let you in here. It's against the rules."

" _ It's against the rules _ ," she mocked, imitating a baby's voice.

"The instruments in the Department of Mysteries are strictly for research only."

"Get the hell out of my way, Unspeakable. That's an order."

Even though both knew that she had no authority over him, he wisely slinked out of the way. The crazy look in her eye was not one that anyone wanted to cross.

After a reticent pause, Dolores pulled her wand out and tapped the orb. "Show me Hermione Granger."

The orb began to fade from white until the image of Hermione Granger appeared, distorted, on the surface of the ball. Around her was a small crowd of people that moved this way and that, and as the girl walked, the grey and black cobblestones beneath her scrolled away like a magic carpet.

"That looks like Knockturn Alley," whispered Fudge.

Suddenly, the orb cracked, emitting a black smoke that curled to the ceiling and dissipated. The Unspeakable yelped and brought his hands to his mouth. "You... It's cracked! What did you do?"

"Damn it, Dolores!" Fudge snapped. "You know the Ministry laws bind us —and now you've gone and shattered a centuries-old scrying orb!"

"You can yell at me later, Cornelius," she said, not looking the least bit apologetic. Instead, she seemed rather smug. Then, she pointed a stubby finger at the four Aurors. "For now —go get her. She's in Knockturn Alley."

The Aurors shuffled their feet and looked to the floor, clearly uncomfortable.

"GO!" she screamed.

Rookwood sighed, rolled his eyes, then waved his hand at the Aurors. "Go."

#

The sun was out, and quite bright today, beating down on London as the sun is wont to do. However, at this point in time, Hermione found herself in Knockturn Alley, typically considered to be the shady version of Diagon Alley. In this case, literally: the old buildings were built so that they leaned over the street, preventing almost any sunlight from penetrating down into the alleyway.

Hermione absentmindedly wandered from store to store, ruminating over the outcome of her recent plan. She was pleased, but not necessarily surprised (thank you very much), that things had gone as envisaged. Doubtless Umbridge would be absolutely livid and would do anything to get her hands on Hermione; and admittedly, she knew she shouldn't be wandering the streets alone. But she had also been meaning to get Ezra something for his birthday, which had long since passed. She only wished she could find the perfect gift.

Suddenly, several  _ CRACK _ s resounded through the alley as four Aurors appeared around her. As one, they all cast Stunners, but she had the presence of mind to drop to the ground to avoid them. One Stunner hit an Auror opposite, for which she was immensely grateful, but she knew it wouldn't mean much given the odds against her.

Another hex raced through the air and she dove to the side, throwing off a Stunner of her own toward one of the Aurors, who in turn deflected it with a timely shield. With a whisper, Hermione quickly transfigured a nearby table into a deadly saw blade and banished it toward the same Auror. This time, he dropped to the floor, just barely avoiding getting his head sliced off. Hermione took the opportunity to brandish her wand at him and cast another Stunner, but as she was incanting, something big, heavy, and painful crashed into her head, and she knew no more.


	14. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : This chapter contains potentially triggering scenes.

When Hermione finally came to, she found herself hanging from the ceiling. No, her hands were hanging from the ceiling? No —maybe? She was disoriented. 

Her hands were bound together by what felt like rope. The rope must have been attached to the ceiling. That's why her hands were above her head. At least her feet were touching the ground —barely.

Her shoulders and elbows were sore from hanging like that; they'd had to support the full weight of her body for some time now. How long had it been?

She tried to stretch or flex her arms, but to no avail; they were too stiff. Her eyelids were heavy, too. It was more comfortable to hang here, at least for the moment, than try to look around.

The sudden sound of knocking pulled her from her ruminations.

"Enter," a woman called out. That was Umbridge. Dolores Umbridge. Apparently she hadn't yet noticed that Hermione was awake.

Her stomach suddenly clenched and twisted. Oh no.  _ Umbridge. _ Ezra would be livid. She had promised him she wouldn't do something stupid, like wander around in broad daylight when she knew Umbridge would do literally anything to find her.

"Cornelius," Umbridge said in greeting. "Magus."

There was an audible scowl.

" _ Unspeakable _ , please," said an unknown voice. It was the man who had scowled.

"Of course, Unspeakable."

There was a scraping of chairs and a slight shuffling as Umbridge's guests took their seats.

"So, Dolores." That was Fudge. "You finally have your... person of interest."

"Yes," the witch responded tightly. "No thanks to you."

"Oh, not this again... We've been over this, Dolores. The very magic of this Ministry forbids my involvement in these situations." Fudge lowered his voice. "Frankly, it does you as well, as is clear based on the fate of that scrying orb."

The Unspeakable snorted.

"At any rate," Fudge continued, "I can have Miss Granger sent to the holding cells."

"No, no, that won't be necessary," said Umbridge. "I can deal with her myself."

"You're sure?" asked the Unspeakable. His voice was grave. "She is inordinately dangerous, and I cannot in good faith recommend leaving her here."

Umbridge snorted, evoking very tangible imagery of a large pig choking on a warty toad. "Dangerous! You clearly underestimate me, Unspeakable. Have the Praesix wait outside; I will hand her over to them when I'm done.

"Very well," the Unspeakable said after a stilted pause. "As you wish."

"Good day, Dolores."

The two men rose from their seats and Hermione heard the door shut as they left the office. Umbridge rose from her seat and locked the door behind them with a nonverbal charm.

Hermione heard the thud of footsteps growing slowly louder as Umbridge approached her. The woman lightly tapped Hermione's cheek with her hand, intent to rouse her from her slumber.

"Hem, hem."  _ Tap, tap. _ "Wake up, Granger."

After several iterations of this, Hermione sighed and dragged her eyes open. No point in delaying the inevitable.

"Ah," Umbridge said with a wide smile. "Hermione Jane Granger is finally awake. Or should I say, Janet Hunter."

Clearly she was pleased with herself for figuring that one out.

"That was quite a clever little ruse you put on." Umbridge took a long pause to critically examine her nails. "I admire that."

"Thanks. Can I go now?" 

She knew she shouldn't be riling up the woman, but she couldn't help it. Umbridge riled  _ her _ up.

"Hermione Jane Granger..." Umbridge repeated, ignoring the girl's comment. "We share the same middle name, you and I. Isn't that fun?" She giggled. "It seems that fate has brought us together."

"Fate had nothing to do with it," Hermione said irately. "It's just the mad antics of an insecure lunatic."

Umbridge slapped Hermione across the face, dragging her nails across the delicate skin of her cheek and drawing the first signs of blood. "I suggest you watch your mouth, Granger."

"Spare me the theatrics," Hermione spat.

_ Smack!  _

Hermione's head snapped to the side as Umbridge backhanded her again, this time with much more force. Hermione couldn't help but moan.

"Granger." All signs of false levity had vanished from her voice. "You lied to me —to my face. You stole from me. You tried to swindle me. Worst of all, you embarrassed me. I'm not afraid to admit it." Umbridge leaned in until she was nose to nose with her. "In turn, I'll do the same. I will break you. I will utterly humiliate you. And then I'll kill you. It's simple as that."

Umbridge straightened back up and looked down at her, tapping the butt of her wand against her palm like a ruler that she would spank a misbehaving schoolchild with.

"But first, I want to know everything there is to know about your little rebellion. And you  _ will _ tell me everything."

"Or what," Hermione sneered, "you'll slap me again?"

Umbridge curled her lip. " _ Crucio _ ."

Hermione screamed as an intense pain rampaged through her body. Her skin burned and burned as if she had been dipped in a furnace —but there was no fire. Only magic: magic that shredded into her skin effortlessly, ignoring the constraints set forth by physics, granting unimaginable pain with no recourse.

Eventually, the curse let up.

"No, no I don't think I'll slap you again." Umbridge chuckled at her clever comeback. "So, who have you been working with? I know you're not doing this alone."

Even though she was suspended from the ceiling, Hermione felt like she still had to exert effort to stay upright, so unwilling was she to cede control entirely to gravity. But it was becoming harder and harder to do so. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath to try to calm her shaking body. 

"Augustus Rookwood."

Dolores pursed her lips and raised her wand once more. " _ Crucio _ !"

Bolts of electricity screamed through her veins and ignited every cell in her body, burning her from the inside out. Her nerves exploded, overwhelmed by the sheer agony invoked by the curse. She tried to claw at her skin, bite her tongue, anything to drown out the crushing pain, but it was to no avail.

When Umbridge lifted the curse, Hermione was panting as if she'd just run a marathon. She struggled to get a full breath of air, half-choking as her lungs and oesophagus recovered from the punishment they'd just been subjected to.

"Did you know, Miss Granger, that the Cruciatus was invented specifically for the purpose of punishing Mudbloods?"

Hermione flinched, and after a moment mumbled something.

"What was that?"

"I said... I don't think that's true," she said hoarsely.

" _ Crucio _ !"

She began to scream once more, back arching, elbows and knees bending unnaturally as she fought against the onslaught of pain. Unbearable pain. She twisted this way and that, anything possible to help her bear it —her shoulders felt like they'd snap out of their sockets, wrists were on the brink of breaking as she struggled against her restraints.

She just wanted it to stop. Her throat was raw from screaming. Tears fell down her face.

At long last, the curse stopped. 

Hermione wanted to cry with relief.

"I know you want it to stop. I can see it in your eyes." Umbridge looked sympathetic. Understanding. She would be compassionate, right? "I'll tell you what, Hermione. If you tell me what I want to know, I'll untie you right here, let you walk out of the Ministry. No strings attached. You just have to answer one question: Who are you working with?"

_ Don't say it _ , she told herself.  _ Be smart, and shut up. _

"Minister Fudge."

Umbridge snarled and raised her wand, causing Hermione to flinch. However, she seemed to think better of it. Instead, she smiled and began to slowly walk around the office. "The Cruciatus is a lovely little spell. But I always suspected that repeated exposure numbed the nerves over time. That just won't do."

By this time, Hermione couldn't see Umbridge —she must have been behind her.

" _ Excorrigiare Scorpiae _ ," the woman hissed.

The incantation sounded foreboding, but she didn't have the presence of mind to try to figure out what it was. Her heart began to race. What was she doing? What was happening?

"How did you get the  _ Prophet _ to print that article?" Umbridge asked from behind her.

Hermione shivered, jerked as she preempted whatever it was that was coming next. But she also couldn't help responding: "Magic."

_ CRACK! _

For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Hermione screamed —but this time, it was as the tails of a whip tore across her back. And though the physical contact lasted only a fraction of a second, it was somehow worse than the Cruciatus. Maybe it was the simple fact that this pain was  _ real _ , caused by a real  _ thing _ .

"You don't deserve to wear  _ magical _ robes, Mudblood.  _ Evanesco _ ." 

Hermione felt the weight on her shoulders lesson as her thick outer robes vanished. She whimpered —the dense fabric had helped protect her skin against the whip.

"It's only going to get worse. Tell me who it is you've been working with," Umbridge snarled.

She couldn't speak. She was having a hard enough time as it was just breathing properly. She just shook her head.

_ CRACK! _

She had no energy to talk, but she still screamed and screamed. Tears raced down her cheek, and if she could have, she would have begged for Umbridge to stop.

"Mudblood," she spat once again. "You don't deserve to wear a shirt.  _ Evanesco _ ."

She felt her blouse disappear. Despite her insurmountable pain, she was coherent enough to be bothered by the uncomfortably chilly air in the office; there was even a mild draft that blew by, stinging her as it kissed the open wounds caused by the whip.

Hermione shivered.

"Who are you working with?"

Hermione didn't —couldn't—respond.

_ CRACK! _

She simply moaned. Then, she felt Umbridge's breath as the horrid woman brought her mouth near her ear. "Mudblood," she whispered.

She began to cry anew when Umbridge vanished her bra.

"Please..." she finally managed to whisper. It hurt her so much to speak. The simple act of moving her mouth caused spikes of fire to shoot up and down her body. "Stop..." 

"What's that, Mudblood?" Umbridge moved to stand in front of her and leaned in until they were eye-to-eye. Despite the immeasurable pain she was in, Hermione gathered all of the energy she could to spit in the old hag's face.

_ CRACK _ !

Hermione nearly blacked out as Umbridge whipped her again, this time from the front. She felt like her body would literally combust in pain as the tendrils of the whip raked across her neck, her breasts, her stomach.

"I'll teach you some manners, you Mudblood fucking whore."

_ CRACK! _

Again.

_ CRACK! _   
  
  


And again.

_ CRACK! _

By this point, Hermione was wavering in and out of consciousness. No longer did the pain register —it was just a dull throb in her subconscious, backdropped against the wet, warm trickles of blood pooling down her body.

Umbridge took a step back and flexed her shoulder, heaving from the exertion. "You know what? I don't think you're really understanding the gravity of this situation. The Mudblood isn't a real witch —she's merely an impostor. You have such a high opinion of yourself, Granger. It's time you truly understand your status."

Smiling serenely, the woman flicked her wand. " _ Relashio _ ."

The rope binding Hermione's hands was severed; Hermione made no effort to stop herself as she fell to the floor.

" _ Imperio _ ."

Suddenly, the pain vanished, to be replaced by a soothing melody that sang through her veins and resonated in her bones. A melody that told her everything was going to be okay. She sighed in relief. She had escaped.

_ Get up _ , she told herself. What a splendid idea. She got to her feet and flexed her fingers, marvelling as the blood rushed back into them; a wonderful sensation. There was another woman here with her, watching over her. How kind of her.

Generally she would have felt uncomfortable being topless in a room with another person. But why should she be so prudish? The human body was a natural, lovely thing. Even blood, which seemed to be flowing gratuitously from her own body, was perfectly natural. Nature was God's gift to Earth.

_ Let's sit down _ , she decided. In fact, she would do some writing.

There, sitting on the desk in front of her, was a quill. She could use that one. But... it was a strange quill. And where was the ink pot? 

_ You don't need it _ , she heard herself say. Don't need what? The quill?

_ No, the ink pot, you imbecile. _

Hermione frowned. That was a mean thing to say. Still dubious about the lack of an ink pot, she picked up the quill.  _ Yes, good job. Let's write something. _

No —she didn't want to write, she decided. 

_ Yes, you do. _

No, she thought vehemently. She really didn't. She was beginning to shiver from the exertion. Why was she exerting anything?

_ Put the tip of the quill to parchment, Granger. _

Granger? Who was Granger? It sounded awfully familiar...

_ Do it! _

Granger! That was her name!

She put the quill to the parchment. What harm could it do?

_ You're a dirty Mudblood, Granger. _

A Mudblood? That sounded rather rude.

_ You should write that down. _

No, thank you. It seemed in poor taste.

_ Write it! 'I'm a dirty Mudblood.' _

I'm a Muggle-born, thank you very much. I'm not a Mudblood!

_ Yes you are! _

Tears leaked from her eyes as she sat at the desk, quill in hand. Her hand shook, caught between two masters.

_ Write it! _

No! She wouldn't write it.

_ I'm a dirty Mudblood. Go ahead, you know it's true. _

The voice in her head —it wasn't even her. It was someone else. It was annoying!

_ I'm a dirty Mudblood! I'm a dirty Mudblood! I'm a dirty Mudblood! _

Fine! She would do it just to make that stupid voice shut up.

As she began to write the first letter on the parchment, she knew something was wrong. She couldn't do it. She wouldn't!

_ Do it! _

No! Stop it!

_ Write it, Mudblood! _

"I won't!"

_ Yes _ _ —you— _ _**WILL** _ _! _

"Stop —stop it!" she screamed as her hand moved on its own accord. Try as she might, she couldn't stop her fingers from moving the quill. "Please...!"

Her screams turned into tears which turned into whimpers as she finished writing the sentence.

_**I'm a dirty Mudblood.** _

She barely felt the pain as the invisible tip of a scalpel cut into the back of her hand, carving the very same letters. As the blood began to flow from her hand, the curse lifted, and Hermione once again fell to the floor.

"Much better," Umbridge said with a smile —the most genuine smile she had worn all day.

With a wave of her wand, Umbridge unlocked the door, then dragged Hermione outside into the hall. Hermione was only too happy at this change of scenery, even if there were four Praesix guards standing there, in formation.

Umbridge gestured one of the Praesix over and handed him a wand. "Here. Take the girl to the middle of Diagon Alley. Make an example out of her. Ensure you snap her wand for everyone to see what happens to Mudblood traitors. Then, kill her." 

The Praesix guard nodded and took the wand, then rejoined formation.

#

_ Click, click, click, click. _

Eight black boots tapped rhythmically against the floor as the four Praesix guards escorted their captive. The Praesix were among the most elite soldiers in the world. They marched with precision, dignity, and above all, honour. 

This was in stark contrast to their prisoner, who shuffled along, half-dragged by the two guards in front of her and half-shoved by the two guards behind her. Barefoot, bruised, clad only in her jeans and knickers, blood still streaming down her body. Her hands were once again bound, this time behind her back, and this time, her ankles were shackled as well. 

Tears rolled down Hermione's cheek as she limped down the corridor. She had been caught, outsmarted —played by her own hubris.

She had failed him. The man who had done the impossible for her; sacrificed everything for her; who would die for her. And she had thrown it away.

Truthfully, she deserved to die. She had gotten cocky. Arrogant. Every day he had worried for her, pleaded with her not to go, begged her not to do something stupid, and she assured him she wouldn't. But then she had anyway.

But she was not afraid to die. She would face death with courage, and a smile. This Muggle-born would die honourably.

And she would —but not today. For she had not been blessed with a magical eye like Mad-Eye had; if she had, she would have seen the Praesix guard behind her and to the right, lift up his left arm, wand pointed directly at the head of the other rear guard.

" _ Reducto _ ."

Before the woman's head had finished exploding, the two forward guards had already turned around and drawn their wands, Killing Curses on their lips.

#

Ezra jumped forward, knocking Hermione unceremoniously to the ground and driving his shoulder into one of the guards, knocking him back and giving Ezra time to donate a silent Severing Charm to the man's neck. The last guard swiftly engaged him in a wand fight, which saw more illegal curses cast in three seconds than most wizards saw in a lifetime.

At some point, the Praesix guard conjured a jet of fire that Ezra only mostly dodged —it caught on his helmet and arm, and he was forced to yank the helmet off before his head was burned irreparably; and then extinguish the flames eating at his left arm.

Ezra paid him back in kind, sending a fireball of his own at the man who, sadly for him, was not able to dodge it. He fell to the ground screaming, and Ezra ended his misery with a second Severing Charm.

Meanwhile, the Ministry's raid alarm had started to blare.  _ Who the hell had activated it? _

Ezra ignored his injuries, courtesy of the fight that had truthfully only lasted seconds, and skidded to a kneel by Hermione.

"Hermione!" he shouted, probably unnecessarily. He could feel tears falling from his eyes, guilt roiling in his stomach. "Hermione..." he whispered, pulling her into an awkward hug. He felt more than heard her hiss in pain, and he grimaced. "Are you alright?" 

What a stupid question.

"I'm... I'm alright..." she murmured, grabbing his extended hands and allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. "I think we have to go."

She was right —any second now, Aurors would be racing down the corridor. 

"Here —this should help for now." He conjured several cloth bandages that wrapped around her torso, stemming the bleeding for now. Then, he handed over her wand which had been stuffed in his pocket. 

Despite the clear pain she was in, Hermione flashed him an appreciative smile. With a bit of a jerky wand motion, the girl conjured for herself a set of robes. 

"Oh," he said with a blush. "Sorry."

"We've got to go, Ezra," she said forcefully, though it was clear she was dazed and more than a bit unsteady on her feet.

Ezra grabbed hold of her arm and let her lean into him as they power-walked down the corridors. The Ministry alarm was still sounding —where were the Aurors?—but fortunately they were nearly to the lifts. 

The ride in the lift was slow, far slower than Ezra liked. Every second, the alarm seemed to get louder. The Aurors closed in. The Apparition point inched further away. Ezra's heart raced; he could feel Hermione's doing the same.

"You ready?" he asked as the lift approached the foyer.

She nodded.

The gate opened, and all hell broke loose.

"It's the Mudblood!"

" —get her!"

"Is that Rowe?"

"Kill them both!"

A small crowd had gathered, variously shouting epithets, commands, and obscenities. Most of the crowd were harmless, but the two Aurors guarding the main gate were most decidedly not. They jumped up and unleashed two vile-looking hexes which Ezra deflected into the group of people gathered; several screams rose from the crowd, and suddenly, what once had been a unified mob of hecklers became a chaotic flurry of hair, clothes, and limbs as people dove this way and that, trying to avoid becoming a casualty of the quickly-escalating war between Ezra Rowe and the two Aurors. 

Hermione was fast weakening, but to her credit, she transfigured the guard desk into a bobcat, which distracted one of the Aurors long enough to be taken out by a Stunner; the second Auror quickly followed. No sooner had he fallen than Ezra grabbed Hermione's hand and began to sprint across the unbelievably long Ministry foyer.

#

"Stop! Get them!" an annoying voice shrieked from the far end of the Ministry's main lobby.

Ron Weasley snapped his head around. Was that Umbridge? What the hell was she on about? He had literally, less than a second ago, arrived at the designated Ministry Apparition point, returning from a well-earned lunch break at Zaconis Mash & Stash —and already that toad of a woman was yelling at him.

Now that he thought about it, the crowd in the foyer was a lot more restless than usual. Not just restless —but agitated, panicked, almost riotous. Expletives and other shouts filled the air; the mad stomping of boots and shoes reverberated through the floor. And, if he concentrated, he could hear the faint blaring of the Ministry's raid alarm. 

What in bloody Merlin's name was going on? 

Bennett and Parkinson had also just arrived, appearing near the far edge of the Apparition point. They drew their wands as soon as they saw the pandemonium in the lobby. 

Ron scowled and pulled his own wand from the inner pocket of his cloak. Umbridge was still shouting at him, or maybe the girls, he wasn't really sure. And then, all of a sudden, two people emerged from the crowd —a sharp blade of focus splitting apart a sea of chaos; sprinting for the exit. Sprinting toward him. 

Uncertain, he raised his wand at the escapees. Who were they, what had they done?

But then he saw their faces. Ezra Rowe, and Hermione Granger.

" _ KILL THEM! _ " Umbridge screamed.

But Ron didn't hear her —instead, time seemed to slow to a stop as the wheels worked in his mind. He could see it. The pain, the fear, the unbreakable determination in Hermione's eyes as she raced toward him. And the look in Ezra's eyes... A look he had seen before only a scant few times.

And immediately, the pieces fell into place.

He understood.

Most of all, he knew what had to be done. He aimed his wand —" _ Conlisus Quasso _ !"

The Concussive Hex slammed into the Bennett and Parkinson just as they cast their own spells, both of which flew wide into the crowd. With an ugly snarl, Bennett rolled to her side, clearly favouring her now-broken arm; in retaliation, she hurled a Bone-Breaking Curse at him, which he barely blocked, and then a Suffocation Jinx which he deflected upward.

They traded several more spells, during which time Parkinson finally got back to her feet. Shaking her head to clear it, she raised her wand and allowed her mouth to curve into a grin.

" _ Avada Kedavra! _ "

Ron had always hoped that if he had to die, he would die protecting his best friend. Today, his wish was granted.

#

" _ KILL THEM! _ " Umbridge screamed.

Ezra watched in horror as Bennett and Parkinson began to cast their spells. There was no time to erect a shield, and he was running too quickly to be able to dodge them. But, as the tips of their wands began to glow, a shock wave slammed into both Aurors, knocking their spells astray and flinging both girls to the ground.

Parkinson seemed out, and a nasty spell fight erupted between Bennett and Ron. Fortunately, the girl appeared injured and the Gryffindor seemed to have gained the upper hand.

As Ezra's foot landed in the Apparition zone, he tightened his grip on Hermione's hand and invoked the Apparition spell. But as Ezra's body began to deconstruct itself in preparation for transport, he saw a sickly, unforgivable green cone of light envelop Ron.

"RON!"

Hermione's scream transcended the physical plane of existence, stretching through the duration of the Apparition, which, while only milliseconds long, seemed an eternity to both parties.

"Ron!" she cried again. "Bring us back —Ez!" 

Ezra squeezed his eyes shut, wishing for all the world that he could go back to the Ministry, but knowing that it was too late —far too late. Biting the insides of his cheeks as if that would help stave off the emotions, he merely shook his head. He couldn't trust himself to speak, not yet. Then he pulled Hermione tight, partly out of desperation for some bit of human contact; partly so he wouldn't have to look her in the eye; and partly to be sure she wouldn't try to Apparate herself back.

"Ezra... please..." she sniffed.

"We can't," he whispered back. Tears were pooling in his eyes; smearing into her hair which he'd buried his face in. "We can't."

"He... I can't believe he..."

Hermione fell silent and then suddenly shoved Ezra back, staring at him with unmitigated horror. "No, no..."

"Hermione, what —"

"My parents!"

She immediately Apparated away, followed closely by Ezra, who arrived just in time to see his friend frantically run into a blazing building that she had once called her home.

Ezra felt a dense, nebulous knot in the pit of his stomach as Hermione ran into the burning home. Why was the world so against them?

Right now, all he knew was that he needed to help her.

"Daddy! Mum!"

Her abrupt shout kicked him out of his reverie and he sprinted inside to find her kneeling next to the bodies of her parents on the smoldering ground. "Hermione!" he called out —but she ignored him.

"Dad...!" she cried, shaking him as if to wake him from a light nap. Then, as if realising the futility of that action, she held two fingers to his neck, and after a long period of silence, she let her hand drop to the floor; defeated.

Meanwhile, Ezra had knelt by Hermione's mum. He wasn't sure what to do besides check her pulse to verify something he already knew deep down. The room was growing quickly hotter as the flames climbed the walls and onto the furniture, and the smoke was starting to make him cough —but he couldn't bring himself to get up.

By this point, tears were freely flowing down Hermione's cheeks. Without a word, she turned to her mum, but couldn't seem to gather up the courage to even touch her. "Mum...?" Hermione quickly looked up to Ezra, unspoken question burning in her eyes.

Ezra squeezed his own eyes shut, and shook his head. Such a small action, but it devastated him to have to do it.

Hermione hiccoughed, and finally reached out to take her mum's hand in hers.

"Mum. I'm so sorry..." she whispered. "It's my fault."

The flames roared around them as they grew ever taller and hotter. Loud cracks rent the air as wood in the ceiling began to buckle from the heat. Some portions of the walls were beginning to collapse. Sweat poured down Ezra's forehead and arms.

Hermione swiped the back of her arm across her face, wiping away the newest batch of tears and sweat. "I shouldn't have left you... I shouldn't have gotten caught. I should have stayed here."

A large segment of the ceiling caved in, crashing into the kitchen and sending plumes of smoke and ash into the air. The fire in the sitting room grew unabated, closing in on the witch and wizard who kept vigil by two Muggles who had been so unjustly murdered.

"I love you, Mum and Dad."

Then, Hermione took Ezra's hands in hers, and his gaze met hers. As the flames grew around them, so did their reflections dancing in her eyes. But it wasn't just these reflections —there was more. There was loss. Sorrow. Pain. And, deep in there, rising up from the very core of her soul: determination.

As the blaze of fire finally opened its arms wide to embrace Hermione and Ezra once and for all, they Disapparated.

#

When they arrived at his flat —in Hermione's room—they simply remained standing, facing each other, hands joined. Hermione had an entirely unreadable expression on her face. He didn't know what he could say to comfort her. 

Doubtless he was better off if he just didn't try to say anything.

"Ron saved us." She didn't let go of his hands. "He... died to protect us."

He didn't dare mention her parents. Clearly she was doing anything she could to avoid thinking about them. Or maybe it was just shock. Instead, he whispered back: "Did you ever doubt he would?"

"No," she said definitively. "I just wish... I just wish we could have told him."

Ezra looked around the room, studiously avoiding her gaze. "He knew."

A thick silence materialised out of nowhere. It was uncomfortable. Unsettling. Just when it seemed Ezra would never be allowed to speak again, the silence was broken.

"He knew?"

He released a shaky breath and nodded. "As we Apparated out... I could see it in his eyes. He knew."

Hermione closed her eyes tight and screwed up her face, but she could not prevent a traitorous tear from leaking out. Suddenly, she dropped his hands, and pulled him into an embrace. Even then, he felt her flinch.

"You're injured."

She didn't respond, nor did she pull away; instead, she only gripped him tighter, burying her face into his neck.

"They're going to get infected," Ezra admonished. "I don't know what she did to you, and you don't have to tell me —"

"The Cruciatus," she whispered from his shoulder. "I was really getting under her skin. I knew I shouldn't. But..."

"You couldn't help herself," he finished for her.

"You've been rubbing off on me," she said absently. A moment passed where she was silent, and then she pulled away from him, wiping at her eyes. "And then... a whip." Her voice was tight, strangled. She crossed her arms, unconsciously closing herself off; she began to quiver. "It was even worse than the Cruciatus. I didn't even know it was possible."

Again she scrubbed at her eyes, which by now were red from the stress, the tears, the pain, the flames and fumes, all in one. "And she... She made me write with the quill, 'I am a dirty Mudblood.'"

Ezra's jaw dropped, and he began to respond, but she cut him off.

"I'm —I'm sorry..." She stared down at the floor, wringing her hands. "I... Now you know. But I would rather just not think about it. Please?"

Something in his chest twisted and clenched —in anger, frustration, guilt. There was nothing more he wanted than to be able to just...  _ fix _ everything for her. How come he wasn't allowed to do that?

Instead, all he could do was nod and accept the fact that life was more complicated than it ought to be.

When she turned to leave, she accidentally sideswiped the bed post and then jerked in pain.

"The bandages are only temporary," he said, exasperated. Honestly, and she called  _ him _ stubborn. "And I know you aren't going to do it yourself."

The glare she shot at him was muted by the exhaustion painted so clearly on her face. With a weary sigh, she tossed her wand on the bed and then slowly turned around so that she was facing away from him.

"Okay," said Hermione in a small voice.

" _ Evanesco _ ."

Her robes and bandages disappeared into nothingness, and she shrieked, snatching a sheet from the bed and holding it to her chest, even though she was faced the other way.

"What?"

"I thought you were just going to... Change the bandages. I don't know," she squeaked.

In lieu of glaring at her, exasperated, he instead stared at her bare back. "Hermione."

She shuffled her feet. 

"You need to be healed," he said mildly. "And you can't reach your own back."

He heard her grumble under her breath.

"Fine."

Slowly, so as not to startle her, he approached her until he was an arm's length away. When she shivered, he cast a warming charm on her. 

"Thank you." A blush suffused her neck.

When he finally got a good look at her back, he grimaced, and resisted the urge to Apparate back to Umbridge's office and burn the woman alive. Hermione's pale skin was covered by an array of long, straight cuts, all of them nearly parallel, crossing down her back from her right shoulder to her left hip. Thankfully, none of them seemed to be exceptionally deep, but the sheer quantity of them compensated otherwise.

Not wanting to bite off more than he could chew, Ezra decided to start with one of the smaller outliers. Pointing the tip of his wand at the top of her shoulder blade, Ezra began to murmur a healing charm, ever-so-slowly tracing his wand down the wound and allowing the magic to knit the skin back together. Eventually, he reached the end of the cut, located just at her waist, and the last of the tissue was closed up. Satisfied with his work, he began to repeat the process for each of the other dozens of cuts. Occasionally, Hermione would hiss or flinch as he encountered a rather intransigent piece of tissue, but otherwise, the process was largely uneventful.

When he was finished, he released a big breath that he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Hermione's back was, for the most part, free of blemish; even a bit pink from the recently-repaired skin. He gently touched his palm to her back, and she seemed to relax just a bit, leaning back into his hand. Then, he ran his fingers slowly down her spine and then began to rub the small of her back.

"That feels nice," she eventually whispered.

"Lie down," he murmured.

"Hmm?" she asked, clearly distracted.

"Lie down."

Hermione paused, but then turned and gingerly lowered herself onto the bed, still clutching the sheet to cover herself. 

After a moment, he perched on the edge of the bed and stared down at the girl who had saved his life on more than one occasion; who had been subject to unspeakable things simply because she had allied herself with him. Her head lay in the centre of her sky blue pillow, curly hair fanned out in a halo that framed her face just perfectly. Reverently, he stroked her cheek —but they both knew he was just delaying the inevitable.

When Ezra cautiously grabbed the edge of the sheet that Hermione was using for cover, she quickly gripped his hand and looked up at him. "Don't —don't look at me."

"I've already seen you like this —remember?" After all, he had been the one to bandage her in the first place. "You're not going to scare me off."

A tense moment passed; Hermione chewed on her lip, appraising the man before her. Finally, she jerkily nodded, and slowly pulled down the sheet.

If he had thought the cuts on her back were bad, the ones on her front were downright awful. Truthfully, he hadn't gotten a good look at them earlier (not that he'd been trying to), and he was almost glad he hadn't seen the extent of her injuries back at the Ministry, because he surely would have snapped and done something utterly stupid.

Several dozens of cuts, gashes, and scars criss-crossed her body, a lattice of wounds that offered no mercy or pity. Some were dry, but others still seeped blood; many were quite deep, and a few looked as if they were already becoming infected. The wounds covered her neck, chest, stomach, and beyond. Her breasts and stomach in particular were heavily bruised, and they seemed the most severely injured, though he wasn't sure if they simply appeared that way due to the prevalence of softer tissue in those areas.

What that bitch had done to her —it was sickening.

"Merlin..." he muttered, gripping his wand so tightly that he could feel his fingers beginning to numb.

"I told you, I'm hideous," she sniffed; she was on the verge of beginning to cry again.

"Hush," he cut back. "You are not hideous, and I know you're not fishing for compliments. Please try to relax."

He began the same slow process as he had done for her back, but with the added complication of being faced with wounds that weren't just surface-level. For each of the numerous gashes, he slowly dragged his wand down the length of the injury, cleaning up the blood, grime, and errant scar tissue; then, disinfecting the cuts with a handy charm he had, surprisingly, learned at Aurum Vale. He knew it was painful for her; not infrequently would she jerk, flinch, or even swear as he made sure to thoroughly clean and repair every square centimetre of her skin.

As he focused on healing the excessive bruising around her more delicate parts, he was careful to be gentle with his hands and wand; focusing on the job to be done, and not letting his eyes loiter where they shouldn't. Hermione, despite her immense pain throughout the process, seemed to find this amusing. Likely a sort of coping mechanism.

Finally —it must have been at least an hour later—the only injuries left to deal with were two deep gashes that travelled down beyond her abdomen to her right thigh. Knowing that Hermione could take care of those on her own, he made to let up, but as he went to stow his wand, Hermione reached out and pulled his hand back toward her. A silent plea, one that would have been too embarrassing to voice aloud.

After taking a moment to steady his racing heart, Ezra brought his hands to the front of her jeans, unbuttoning them, sliding them down only as much as necessary; then, her knickers.

Hermione's breath hitched.

Holding his own breath to keep his hand steady, Ezra slowly, carefully cleaned and healed the two gashes.

When he was finished, Ezra stowed his wand for good and sat up straight, giving his back muscles a well-deserved stretch. When he looked down at Hermione, there was something in her eyes; a roiling, turbid emotion that was unfamiliar to him, but entirely captivating.

Finally, he broke free from her gaze. "I think you can dress yourself without my help," he said with a small smile. Ezra turned around and stared at the door as he waited for her to dress. He listened to the rustling of sheets and then general shuffling as she dressed.

After a minute, she called out —"You can turn around, Ez."

When he turned around, he felt his mouth go dry. The girl stood in front of him with a curious expression —one of... defiance? She hadn't dressed at all. In fact, she had done away with the jeans entirely, and now only wore her knickers.

Silently, she took his hand in hers and took a step closer, then with a look that dared him to object, she delicately placed his hand on her breast. Tears welled in her eyes, but in the very centre of her pupils, he could see something else burning. Their eyes locked and she said just one word.

"Please."

In a single motion, he wrapped one arm around her back, pulling her close and letting his lips crash into hers. She whimpered as he pressed into her, as her body moulded against his. Ezra began to pour all of his emotions —fear, anxiety, desire, lust—into a kiss that, for the first time in his life, offered him an escape from the world around him. A kiss that allowed him to express everything he felt for the woman he held in his arms.

They broke for breath. "Hermione —"

"No, don't you dare. We deserve this, you know we do." At the look in his eyes, she whispered, "I want it. Please."

Arms entwined, lips locked, Ezra pushed her back onto the bed.

#

As she had nearly every morning for the past several weeks, Hermione hunched over the table, absently twirling a lock of hair while she pored over the magnificent tome she had 'acquired' from the  _ Biblioth _ _ èque d'Histoire Magique _ so many months ago. By now, she had made it nearly three quarters of the way through the extensive catalogue of laws, the catalogue whose very existence the Ministry had tried so hard to quell. 

Hermione's eyes quickly scanned over each page; occasionally she would scribble a quick note on a bit of parchment before resuming her examination of the magical tome. By now, she could determine the gist of most laws after just a single pass, albeit a slow one. Her French was quite improved, thank you very much, and rarely did she have to consult the French–English dictionary that waited on standby next to her. That said, she would be embarrassed to admit that she would now feel more comfortable discussing nineteenth century politics than chatting with friends about the cinema.

Across from her sat Ezra, who watched her with amusement as he pretended to read the morning edition of the  _ Daily Prophet _ . In fairness, he didn't need to read it to know it wasn't worth reading. To no surprise at all, recent issues of the newspaper had been reporting nothing of true consequence — only vaguely veiled propaganda, false platitudes grounded in empty promises, and the occasional "wanted" notice offering thousands of Galleons for the heads of Ezra Rowe and Hermione Granger.

So, he instead took the opportunity to observe the girl across the table. Despite her general fatigue, frenzy, and franticness, it was a calming sight to behold. Watching her as she did what she was best at —taking a sloppy, complicated mess of a situation and synthesising it into something usable.

"Magus..." whispered Hermione quite suddenly as she re-read the piece of text in front of her. She crinkled her eyebrows and tilted her head for a moment, lost in thought. "Ezra, who is Magus?"

"Hmm?" Hopefully she hadn't noticed his staring.

"Have you heard of the title 'Magus'? I think..." Her eyes lit up as she seemed to recall something. "I think he's an Unspeakable."

"Why are you asking me? You're the walking encyclopedia."

"Ha, ha." Hermione threw a crumpled piece of paper at him, which he tried, but failed, to dodge.

She giggled, then quickly sobered. "That day, in Umbridge's office, when she thought I was still unconscious. She had two visitors, the Minister, and someone she called 'Magus'. He told her to address him as Unspeakable instead."

With a frown, Ezra folded the  _ Prophet _ and tossed it on the table. "We don't interact at all with the Unspeakables. I've never so much as seen one on level two. I don't think I can help —sorry."

"It's alright; I just wanted to check." But she seemed rather disappointed.

After a moment, she began to idly tap her quill against the table and stare off into space. "I need to see Luna," she blurted, jumping to her feet.

"I know you hate it when I say this —"

"I'll be careful," she promised.

#

"It's been so long since we've been here," Luna said in wonder, her pale eyes exploring the diner, taking all the strange sights in. Patrons handling papery currencies; waitresses carrying plates with their hands; service workers outside, cleaning the glass windows with rubber squeegees attached to poles.

"I didn't want to meet at the warehouse..." said Hermione by way of explanation. "I would prefer if the others didn't know about this."

"Of course." Luna beamed. "I'm happy to keep your secrets. It'll be just like the old days." Suddenly, she gasped and brought her hands to her cheeks. "That's the first time I've ever said that!"

Their rather peculiar conversation was interrupted by a plump, cheery waitress who appeared next to their table. "Something to drink, dears?"

Luna immediately responded, "One Butterbeer, please."

The waitress gave her a blank stare.

Hermione kicked Luna under the table. "Umm, sorry, nothing for us right now," Hermione said with a fake smile, hoping the woman would pass off Luna's response as a fleeting oddity.

"She's a  _ Muggle _ ," Hermione hissed, once the waitress had left.

"Are they not allowed to serve Butterbeers?"

Hermione had to bite her tongue. "Luna, the reason I wanted to meet —I know you don't like talking about it, but your mum was an Unspeakable, right?"

Surprise flashed on Luna's face. An emotion that Hermione rarely saw in the girl.

"I shouldn't be surprised you guessed that," said Luna, though it seemed more to herself than to Hermione. "I only tell people she performed spell research."

Hermione's knee had started bobbing up and down, restless. "When you were young, did she ever talk about someone called Magus? I think it's a title."

"The Unspeakable Magus?" she said vacantly. "It's not just a title, it's... an obligation, a duty. He oversees the entire Department of Mysteries, and acts as a mouthpiece for the Unspeakables to the Minister. Mum never said much else, except that he was her boss, obviously; and she seemed to look up to him. I wish I could say more..." Her face dropped. "Why do you ask?"

With a slow shake of her head, Hermione released a silent breath. "I —I don't know. Something has been niggling at the back of my mind, and I'm trying to figure out why. At any rate, this does help. Thank you."

Luna glowed from the praise.

When Hermione began to extricate herself from the booth, Luna stopped her. "Hermione, was there something else you wanted to ask me?"

It was phrased as an innocent question, but Hermione knew it was anything but. Weighing her options, she finally accepted defeat. "It's... I know it's a stupid thing."

"You don't say stupid things."

Hermione blushed and looked at her shoes. "That night, in the warehouse..." She mumbled something else that wasn't quite intelligible.

"Can you speak up?" asked Luna, a bit too loudly for Hermione's taste.

"What did you say to Ezra? You know..." 

_...when you made him blush that bright red _ , she finished in her head. She felt idiotic for even thinking it.

"You love him, don't you?" said Luna.

Hermione refused to meet her eye.

"I simply told him what you were too afraid to."

#

As she Apparated home, Hermione's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts: the Ministry, Ezra, the Unspeakable, Luna, the Auror force, Harry... A jumble of ideas and theories all twisted carelessly together, a writhing tornado of unanswerable questions and unaddressable concerns.

The question of the Magus was at the forefront of her mind. Where had she seen it before? And why was she not able to remember this one, simple thing? Oh, she could spout off pointless statistics and unimportant historical dates on command, but as soon as she needed something actually  _ important _ , her mind always seemed to draw a complete blank.

Why had the Magus invited himself to Umbridge's office with Fudge? Clearly he was cosy with both of them. And to think that she, Hermione Granger, had been in the same room as three of the most powerful people in Britain —all within cursing range... If only she'd had her wand.

She stopped cold. Her jaw dropped, and goose pimples sprung up on her arms.

_ That _ 's where she had seen it —no doubt about it. It must have been weeks ago by now...

Hermione raced to the kitchen and began to flip through the obscenely large catalogue she had left open on the table. When she had first obtained the book, she had been annoyed that the entries were presented in alphabetical order instead of, well, just about any other possible order. At least it would have made searching it easier. But today, right now, alphabetical order was perfectly admissible, seeing as she knew exactly the title of the law she was looking for.

And —there! On page 1182:  _ Clause de la Succession Minist _ _ érielle _ . Ministerial Succession Clause.

Hermione read through the entry several times, then began to translate it on a scrap piece of parchment. Only once, she was pleased to note, did she have to check her dictionary for a translation. Finally, she examined her work:

_ Shall the Minister for Magic be removed from his position in accordance with the law, or be incapacitated to the extent that he cannot discharge his powers and obligations as is required by his post, or otherwise lose the ability to discharge his powers and obligations as is required by his post, whether by his resignation, death, or abdication of the post; then the above title, post, responsibilities, and duties shall fall to the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, who shall assume such position until the aforementioned deficiency is remedied. If the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is ineligible to assume such position, the position devolves to the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. If the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot is ineligible to assume such position, the position devolves to the Unspeakable Magus or his surrogate. _

The wheels in her head began to turn as the different scenarios formed in front of her very eyes, and she began to frantically scribble barely-legible notes as she let her imagination run wild.

At some point, Ezra walked into the kitchen, book in hand. He stared at her, then her cryptic notes —all written in the script she had forced him to learn—and leaned over her, unabashedly reading over her shoulder.

"Hermione —"

"Not now, Ezra..." she muttered, quite distractedly.

She heard him shuffle his feet behind her, and she felt a bit guilty.

"Alright..." he said softly. "I just thought you might want this. Umbridge's book you nicked —maybe it's of use?"

Hermione shrieked and jumped up, nearly colliding with Ezra's chin above her. How could she have forgotten?

"Thank you!" she exclaimed, pulling Ezra close and kissing him on the lips. Then, she snatched the book from his hand, ignoring his bewildered expression, and pushed him back out of the kitchen.

All thoughts of Ezra were cleared from her mind when she beheld the book in her hands. It was small, grey —almost silver—and quite thin; it couldn't have been more than twenty pages or so.  _ The Thirteen _ , the cover read in calligraphic, gold letters. Gingerly, reverently, she opened the book and took a seat. Carefully flipping past the handwritten preamble, she began to read:

_ Though the Veil of Death had been initially discovered in the mid-17th century, it wasn't until the turn of the century that the Wizards' Council had amassed a sufficient group of wizards willing to study the wretched magical device. Naturally, myriad disreputable parties had expressed unhealthy interest in the secrets of the Veil; to preserve the sanctity of the Veil and the wellbeing of its researchers, the Wizards' Council agreed that the members of the research group would be kept anonymous. _

_ In 1706, however, a member of the group, Ernest Wheeldon, became intoxicated at a wedding party and inadvertently revealed his association with the Veil. Within days, Wheeldon was captured and tortured for details about the project. His body was never found; he is presumed dead. _

_ The remainder of the group recognised the need for a means to protect themselves and the dangerous research they proctored. As such, the thirteen remaining wizards, led by Archmage Nicolai Seddon, founded the British Ministry of Magic, building it directly over the Veil of Death. Imbued in the charter of the Ministry itself would be axiomatic directives that physically prevented these wizards from being coerced to share their research with outsiders. Hence, they became known as the Unspeakables, and they named Seddon as their leader: the Unspeakable Magus. _

_ In order to anchor the existence of the Ministry to the protection of the Unspeakables, they imbued each of their individual magicks into thirteen pillars built into the walls of the Veil Room; thirteen pillars representing thirteen Unspeakables. _

_ The consequences of this decision are still observed today, and will continue to be observed in perpetuity: As each pillar was magically linked to an Unspeakable during the founding of the Ministry, so it must always be. To have more or less than thirteen Unspeakables under the jurisdiction of the Ministry for Magic would cause a dangerous instability in the foundational magic supporting the organisation. _

_ The unfortunate consequences of violating this precept, if only briefly, was last observed in 1893, when... _

Hermione pushed herself away from the book, hands shaking and pulse racing as she processed what she had just read. Her face had paled; fingers had numbed; breathing had shallowed. For once in her life, she knew exactly what needed to be done —and for once in her life, the immediacy with which the plan had formed in her mind did not please her.

Tears pooling in her eyes, Hermione quickly pushed herself to her feet, inadvertently knocking the chair over. She ignored it. She strode to her bedroom, shut the door behind her with a flick of her wand, and approached the chest of drawers that Ezra had at some point bought second-hand.

Steeling herself, she pulled open the top drawer and picked up the long, thin wooden box that lay within. The box contained the key to everything —she needed to open it. Yet every thump of her heart caused her hand to jerk.

_ You know what needs to be done, Hermione. Just remember: when one door closes, another always opens. _

She took a deep breath and then quickly flipped the latch undone. Then, she raised the lid.

Inside lay Harry's two wands. Both of them sat quietly, unassumingly, even patiently —embraced on all sides by soft, black velvet.

One was beautiful; crafted from fine holly, with a phoenix feather as its core; a warm brown colour that she was sure matched her eyes.

But her focus was drawn to the other one. The black one. Grainy, knobbly... vicious; with powerful magic oozing out of it.

The Elder Wand.

#

"You're a hypocrite, Indigo."

Indigo gave the Magus a blank stare. "Pardon?"

"You extol the virtues of honesty, fact, and a singular truth. Yet your actions bely your words." The Unspeakable crossed his arms. "The Minister and I have extended to you the courtesy of this interview, and you have told me nothing but lies."

An uncomfortable silence filled the air.

With a growl, the Unspeakable flipped through his notes, eventually locating the parchment of his apparent interest before picking it up and waving it in front of Indigo. "Your father wasn't a spell researcher —or at least," the Unspeakable said, leaning forward, "he didn't create the Disillusionment Charm, as you claimed."

Indigo's eyebrow twitched, but he quickly schooled his expression. "How do you know that?"

"I know it because  _ my department _ created it —in 1711! It was one of the very first projects that Seddon oversaw as Magus! If you're going to lie to me, Indigo, you had better do your research first. The Department of Mysteries— _ my _ Department of Mysteries —has overseen investigations, undertaken projects which have indescribably impacted our world. Research which has saved millions of lives. Research which my predecessors performed at great personal risk; sacrificing their time, their happiness, their very lives to help others. And here you are, besmirching the name of my department, attempting to take credit for things you have no right taking credit for.

"You have told me many lies tonight, Indigo. Your father, your schooling, your relationship with Mr Moody —the Elder Wand."

All signs of colour drained from Indigo's face. "How —how do you mean?"

"Miss Granger was in possession of the Elder Wand."

"Yes, of course," he said slowly. "Do you think I would lie about that? The Elder Wand is a vile, horrible piece of magic; I would never make light of it, nor lie about it."

"No, Indigo. I believe you. I believe that the Elder Wand really was in the possession of Miss Granger. But much more importantly" —the Unspeakable leaned in until Ezra could see the tip of his nose under his hood—"I believe that you lied about Harry Potter."

Indigo inhaled sharply and began to work his jaw as if trying to determine the best course of action. "How do you mean?" he finally whispered, repeating his earlier words.

"The Elder Wand was property of the Department of Mysteries for over two hundred years. It was an unsolvable, intractable... mystery. No one knew how it functioned, who could use it, or how long it had been around. But then, early one morning, it suddenly vanished, just like  _ that _ ." The Unspeakable snapped his fingers. "Off to unite with someone who had become worthy to wield it."

"So?"

"The Elder Wand, finicky as it was, would never be parted too long or too far from its true master. And if it had no master, it would not remain in this realm. The fact that it stayed in Miss Granger's possession this whole time tells me one thing."

The look on Indigo's face was incredulous. "You mean to insinuate that Miss Granger was the true master?"

The Unspeakable Magus lowered his voice to a deadly whisper. "No, Indigo. I mean to insinuate that Harry Potter never died."

Indigo 9733 stared at the Unspeakable, silent as he processed the scene around him. The Unspeakable didn't move, didn't rush him. The Praesix guards stood dutifully in the corner, clearly intrigued by the story but equally ready to kill their prisoner at the drop of a hat.

After an eternity, tears began to well in Indigo's eyes. A sad smile graced his lips.

"Sometimes, Magus, it is not about the truth, but appearances.

"You see, I am not the man I once was. Nor am I the man that the world expected me to be. Most importantly, Unspeakable, I am not the man you think I am. You have to understand something. Ronald Weasley may have been an expert in chess; a child prodigy, even. But Harry Potter was the King of Games —and Master of Death. On the evening of Voldemort's demise, Harry Potter's body really did die. But his mind, his magic, and his very soul lived on: in me, Ezra Rowe."


	15. Reminiscence

_**I believe death is only a door. One closes, and another opens.** _

#

"...You have now lost your mother, your father, and the closest thing to a parent you have ever known. Of course you care," Dumbledore said, even more calmly than before.

"YOU DON'T KNOW HOW I FEEL!" Harry roared. "YOU —STANDING THERE—YOU—"

But words no longer seemed enough. He could barely form coherent thoughts. Angry sparks danced about, magic lashed out from his body as he yelled at the headmaster —the headmaster who had continually kept him in the dark, treated him like a wounded animal in need of shelter; who, even now, refused to tell him what he needed to know to survive. Harry didn't even notice the tingling in his skin; the rapid buildup of magical energy in the room, almost like static electricity.

With an anxious look, Dumbledore drew his own wand —not to attack the boy, but to protect him from his own outburst, if necessary.

"You —how  _ could _ you?!" Harry bellowed, shattering the window behind Fawkes' perch with a tendril of escaped power. Tears began to stream down his face as a volatile cyclone of magic began to form around him. "All year, you've kept me in the dark, Sirius locked up at Grimmauld —"

"Harry, you must calm down —"

" _ Calm down? _ You're telling me to..." But his erratic breathing interrupted the second half of his sentence. His heart was racing now; wind screamed in his ears as magic roared around him. Papers whirled around the office; books sailed around the room, covers flapping; small knick-knacks were blown from their positions on shelves, falling to the floor and breaking, or shooting across the office and shattering things that were likely important.

"HARRY!"

"SHUT UP!" 

A resounding  _ CRACK! _ rent the air as Harry finally lost control. The ornate desk in front of him cracked cleanly in half, collapsing onto the floor; Dumbledore was tossed violently back into his chair, his wand flying across the room; Harry himself was launched backward until he crashed into the wall behind him.

He felt something wet and warm on his head. He lifted his hand up to feel it. Ugh.

The world around him swayed and danced, slowly turning dark...

#

Albus Dumbledore stood at the window of his office, his back to Harry. He seemed lost in thought; or perhaps he was observing a particularly interesting event on the school grounds below. Maybe the Giant Squid had come up to bask in the rare winter sun; or a herd of Centaurs was conversing near the boundary of the forest; or Hufflepuff was practising for their upcoming Quidditch match. Either way, the man was silent. How long would he stand there? Should Harry just leave and come back later?

At long last, Professor Dumbledore gave a great sigh. A sigh that Harry had never heard from the man. A sigh of... fatigue. The man was tired. Resigned.

In a single motion, he turned around and took a seat at his desk. He gestured at the chair across from him, which Harry took with some trepidation. Still, Dumbledore didn't speak, but instead pulled his wand from his pocket and began to roll it in his hands, examining it, appraising it —almost reverently.

"Wands are curious things, Harry," he finally said. "Some wizards, like Ollivander, believe they have unique personalities. Others, like Gregorovitch, claim they can think for themselves. Regardless of what you believe, it is clear that wands are quite, shall we say, magical." Despite the innocuous statement, Dumbledore's tone of voice was grave. "My wand has not been behaving well this year."

Harry wasn't ashamed to admit he was confused as to why this was the headmaster's topic of choice for the afternoon. "Do you know why?" he finally asked.

"I believe I do. Fortunately, as I understand it, the fix is quite simple," said Dumbledore, his blue eyes twinkling in the setting sun. "I trust you remember our lesson on the topic of this wand —the Elder Wand. It bides its time, waiting patiently, awaiting a master; and once it finds him, it stays with him until a new master emerges. Unfortunately, Harry, I am no longer this wand's true master."

Harry stared at him, mouth agape. "That's... But it's...  _ you _ . That's... impossible!" he stuttered. Something was wrong. "What —who is it? Who could ever defeat  _ you _ in a duel?"

A warm, genuine smile crossed Dumbledore's wrinkled face. "Last year, after our jaunt at the Department of Mysteries, I brought you back here so that we could talk."

Harry flushed. Certainly he had not forgotten.

"That evening, you lost control —"

"Sir, I'm really sorry —"

"Please, Harry, let me finish," he admonished lightly. "That evening, you lost control of your magic. The resulting explosion destroyed a number of insignificant objects in my office. Much more importantly, you inadvertently disarmed me. At that point, Harry, I believe the wand changed masters."

Suddenly Harry found his throat dry. Too dry. "What?" he rasped. But he hadn't misheard. And in truth, he hadn't misunderstood. "No..."

"The Elder Wand belongs to one Harry James Potter."

"No —I—I can't..." His heart was beating, skipping, pulse racing, way too fast. The blood drained from his head; he couldn't focus, couldn't think. He was shaking his head. Emphatically, even. "No—I... I'm sorry..."

"Don't be sorry. It is, in fact, the last thing you should be." The man's voice was infuriatingly calm.

"But, it's...  _ yours _ . How can you be so, so... fine with this?"

"Once you've come to be my age, you start to accept that you can't control the world around you. Sometimes, you just have to cede that control." The headmaster leaned forward and stared at Harry over the top of his half-moon glasses. "The wand chooses the wizard, Harry, not the other way around. It is rightfully yours."

"But —can't you, I dunno, disarm me?"

"I'm afraid the wand is not so easily fooled."

With wide eyes, fearful eyes, Harry stared at the wand. The Elder Wand. He didn't want it. He didn't need it. Already, it seemed, there was the weight of the world on his shoulders, and now... this.

Harry clenched his eyes shut, letting the dull rumbling in his ears drown out the world for a short moment. Then, with a curt nod, he reopened his eyes and stared across the desk at Dumbledore, who met his gaze.

Without a word, Dumbledore handed him the wand. As soon as he had let go of the wand, the headmaster straightened up, smiled —as if a huge weight had been lifted from him. "Oh!" he exclaimed, after checking the clock on the wall. "I must tend to my orchid. It has a very strict watering regimen, you see. Ah, the joys of nature. I must be going—see you next week, Harry."

Albus Dumbledore swept toward the door, but just before he left, he turned. "Oh, and Harry, it seems as though you've had much on your mind. I've always found that reading a good book can help take one's mind off of the troubles of the day." He inclined his head not-so-subtly toward a thin, blood-red book lying on the corner of the desk.

With a faint  _ click _ , the door of the office closed behind the headmaster.

#

"Professor, how am I supposed to defeat Voldemort? Like, actually... you know,  _ kill _ him?"

"Harry... This world is blessed to have you in it. You've grown into a fine, young man, and I couldn't be more proud of you —taking on this mantle that was unwillingly thrust upon you." Professor Dumbledore picked up a glass bauble and stared into it. "It is clear to all that Voldemort must be vanquished, and I believe with every bone in my body that you will succeed. But you must not lose sight of the forest for the trees."

Harry blinked. "What? How do you mean?"

"The biggest threat to humanity is always the unseen one." Harry opened his mouth but Dumbledore rushed him off. "Please don't misunderstand me. Voldemort is vile, despicable, truly a horrendous monster that has caused countless people to suffer. But he is still a physical, tangible wizard. You can see him, you can talk to him, and you can duel with him. Why is Voldemort so dangerous? Think." Dumbledore fixed him with a patient stare. 

"Fear. It's because people are afraid."

"Exactly. The killing, the torture, it's a horrible thing, but it's only a means to an end. Voldemort doesn't want to rule the world, Harry. He wants to  _ control _ it. And how better to control a world than by fear?"

"Surely," Harry mused, "once he's gone, people will no longer be afraid."

With a deep sigh, Dumbledore lowered himself into his cushy chair. "It is rather the opposite. I saw it after World War I, and again after Grindelwald. People fear that it will happen again, and are willing to do anything to see that it doesn't. Certain parties will take advantage of that fear to assert their own control. Do you understand?"

"The... the Ministry," Harry whispered.

"The Ministry isn't just a building." Dumbledore's voice was low, and Harry had to lean in to hear him. "It's a living, breathing organism. Its cells are different departments, councils, committees. It's a web of bribery and distrust; a network of corruption built on top of esoteric laws and nebulous alliances.

"Truthfully, Voldemort doesn't need to take over the world; he just needs to take control of the Ministry. Unfortunately for us, he's already most of the way there. This war won't be won on the battlefield. It will be won within the walls of the Ministry of Magic. His death is an inevitability: of that, I'm sure. But he will still have won if the Ministry isn't redeemed."

"Professor, not to sound rude, but why can't  _ you _ ... do it?"

A sad smile graced Dumbledore's face. "Ah, dear boy. My time is passed. That much was evident when I was dismissed as Chief Warlock. Oh, I have a few remaining tricks up my sleeve, but it is clear to me that you are the one who now possesses the keys to win this war."

#

As quietly as possible, Harry pushed the portrait shut and briskly walked across the common room toward the dormitories. His cunning plan was perturbed when he heard his name called from by the fireplace. Schooling his expression, he sped up, nearly jogging toward the stairs, hoping Ron would think he just hadn't heard him. Right as he reached the entry to the stairwell, a girl hopped in front of him and stared at him with crossed arms.

"Harry, will you please just talk to us?" Hermione's gaze was stark, intense. Small tears decorated the corners of her eyes.

Harry bit back the retort on his lips and gritted his teeth, finally releasing a clenched breath. "Fine," he said, wishing that he could be just about anywhere else. "What is it?"

With a sniff, the girl hooked her arm in his and led him —or marched him—over to a small circle of plush chairs the trio had periodically commandeered in the past. The distant past, it seemed.

Gingerly, Harry lowered himself onto the edge of his chair, hips tensed, legs coiled, subconsciously ready to bolt at any moment.

Hermione sat down directly across from him; Ron opted for a less aggressive stance, claiming a small sofa off to the side.

"Harry..." she said, despondent. "You've been... distant lately. Please don't try to deny it. What's been going on?"

"We're worried about you, mate," Ron added. Then his ears reddened and he stared down at his hands.

"It's —nothing," said Harry in a manner that he was sure was quite convincing. Or not. His voice wasn't usually that squeaky. "I'm sorry I've been out a lot. I've just had lots to do. You know... lessons with Dumbledore," he added lamely. 

Ron scoffed. "Harry, we've seen you. Holed up in the library at lunch; reading your  _ private _ little book at night —and I know you're going out on the grounds nearly every night, too." At this, Harry froze. "Thought I wouldn't notice, yeah?"

"What's wrong with books?" he snapped, turning to Hermione for some support. "You're the one constantly nagging us to read more —" 

"Don't change the topic, Harry Potter. You've been up to something, and I know you like your secrets, but..." she trailed off and seemed to get lost in thought for a moment. "It's been months, and you've been drifting away. We're your best friends, you know —we're here to help you. You're supposed to let us help you. Do you not trust us?" she whispered. 

"You think this is an issue of  _ trust _ ?!" he choked back in a strangled voice. "I trust you guys more than anything in the world —how could you even...? I'm sorry, I—I just... I can't. I can't..."

Hermione fixed him with a gaze that was... leaden. Wistful, contemplative. Almond eyes shimmered in the firelight, a flurry of emotions and thoughts bubbling under the surface. A single tear streaked down the side of her face. He couldn't bear to look at her anymore, so he broke off.

But then his eyes flicked to Ron, and in some ways, it was worse. His friend fixed him with a transparent gaze that was anxious, bitter, and —Harry wasn't afraid to admit—furious. It was honest, and Harry liked that. That's how Ron had always been; a best mate whose behaviour and countenance could be taken at face value. Someone who anchored Harry to reality: who could lift his spirits when he was moping, or shove him back in line when he was off kilter, or pull him down to earth when he'd gotten too full of himself.

For six years, Ron had been their fortress; honest, direct, candid. The much-needed and oft-overlooked conscience of the group. He saw things as they were, and said what was on his mind. He didn't play mind games with people.

Unlike what Harry was doing. What he was resigned to do.

No... Ron could never know. If he knew, Harry would never be able to go through with it.

And the game would be up.

#

"Professor," said Harry slowly, facing the headmaster with a blank look. "I think I know what needs to be done."

"Oh?" Dumbledore asked, before unwrapping a sherbet lemon and popping it into his mouth. 

Harry nodded and cautiously glanced around the room. He leaned in a bit over the desk. "Thank you for the book. It was helpful."

"I'm not sure what you're referring to," the headmaster said blithely, "but if you've acquired one of my books without my knowledge, I must insist you return it forthwith."

"The Incarnation Ritual that the b —that I read about... The author says the incarnations, the simulacra, aren't truly alive. They don't really have a soul, or even magic."

"That is correct, Harry. As you know, even in the magical world, there is no reversing death."

Slowly, hesitantly, Harry pulled the Elder Wand from his pocket. "Maybe," he whispered, tracing his fingers over the natural crevices and knots that adorned the wood. "But I do have one advantage."

"I'm afraid that I cannot endorse any such ritual. After all, it's highly illegal." Dumbledore smiled, rising and gesturing Harry to do the same. "With that said, I believe with all my heart that you will accomplish whatever it is you set your mind to."

#

"You —you can't do this!" she cried. "Months...  _ months _ you've spent on this, and that's the best idea you've come up with?"

"Hermione," he whispered, stomach fluttering in his throat, "it's the only way."

"The only —it's suicide, Harry!"

"You think I don't know that?!" he snapped. "You think I haven't sat down and stared at every single possible idea, spent months poring over every fucking book imaginable, looking, hoping, praying for a better idea? You think I like this? You think Dumbledore likes this?"

Hermione gasped and took a step back. "He  _ knows _ ? He's  _ letting  _ you do this?"

"He's not 'letting' me," Harry hissed. "It's my decision, not his —and not yours."

"You —I—" she started, but words seemed to fail her. At long last, she sobbed and ran to him, flinging her arms around his neck.

"You know this is the only way," he murmured.

She sniffled, but didn't dispute him; she only hugged him tighter.

"I have to do this."

It must have been ten or twenty minutes that they stood like that, her squeezing the life out of him as she sobbed into his neck. Finally, she loosened her grip and pulled back, staring into his eyes.

"Just..." Harry trailed off, and it took him a long moment to regather his speech faculties. "Just promise me you won't tell anyone."

"But —"

"Promise me."

Hermione looked like she wanted to object; to yell, to scream. But she just nodded, tears streaming freely down her face. "Okay. I promise."

#

Roots and leaves crunched underfoot as Harry carefully traversed the treacherous bowels of the Forbidden Forest. This journey was one that he had made many times before; indeed, several miles back, his focus had turned inward, rendering him deep in thought, letting his mind race and toil while his body navigated the labyrinth of trees on autopilot.

This time next year, he would be facing off with the man who had murdered his parents, who had made Harry's world a living hell: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Dark Lord Voldemort. It would be the final confrontation. It had to be.

Tonight's plan was stupid —he knew it, Dumbledore knew it, and Hermione knew it. But it was the best he had: it was the only way. 

Harry's natural instinct was to put it off, do it later. Truthfully, who could blame him? However, the student body was leaving Hogwarts tomorrow for summer holidays, which meant it would be some two months until he saw them again at the start of seventh year. He couldn't have really picked a better time than tonight. He would have an entire summer to acclimate, to integrate into new surroundings so as not to raise suspicions next year.

It was a great pity that he'd had to resort to this lying, sneaking around. The immense irony of it all. He was Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the boy who would surely defeat Voldemort (of this, he had little doubt). But with how the Ministry had been treating him, vilifying him at every opportunity, slandering his name at every turn —"Rising Dark Lord, Harry Potter"—his time was near an end. Even once he killed Voldemort—no, they wouldn't let up. Fudge would just take that as another opportunity.

His hands were tied.

At long last, Harry reached the clearing. It was small, no more than five metres across. Odd branches, twigs, and moss were scattered about the ground, which was otherwise plain dirt, with maybe a bit of mud. Perfect for his needs. 

Without a second thought, he drew his wand —the Elder Wand—and pointed it at the ground in front of him. " _ Surrecturus Corpus _ ," he said in a strong voice.

The ground began to shake, mumbling and trembling and undulating. Small rocks and leaves were sucked under, to be replaced with fresh soil and decaying roots from deep under the surface. The ground began to froth and swash back and forth like a turbulent pool of lava, and then —an animated body  _ jumped _ out, landing gracefully on its two feet, before righting itself and staring with soulless eyes at Harry Potter.

Harry shuddered at the sight. It was, by all means, a... a corpse. A dead body. But it wasn't gross, or smelly, or filled with maggots or decaying flesh. It was... complete. It looked for all the world like a human. A beautiful human. He sported magnificent, bleach-white hair, only brightened by the moonlight that shone down upon him. A chiselled jawline, clean-shaven and sturdy. And wondrous, light blue eyes —which, despite their effulgent colour, were empty, lacking the usual warmth one was accustomed to seeing in the eyes of another human.

Once more, Harry Potter raised the Elder Wand. This time, the wand seemed to know what was coming, what was being asked of it —that it would be used to bend, flex, nearly break the laws of magic as only one who wielded this wand could. After all, this wand granted unspeakable, unimaginable powers to its master.

The black wood began to heat up in his hand, sending pulses of energy up his arm and into his chest. It oozed poisonous emotions —lust, greed, power; whispering deep, dark secrets into his ears. The air around him began to chill and condense, squeezing the oxygen out—oxygen had no place in the realm of death. The leaves on the trees around him fluttered, rustled in the wind, wind that was quickly picking up, a storm in the middle of this small clearing.

Power surged through him, into the wand, or from the wand, it didn't matter —it was one and the same. He was one with the wand.

Power. Energy.

It roared in his ears, blinded him, attacked him from every side. It beckoned to him, tempting him, seducing him —

_ No _ , he commanded. Quietly, firmly. The black tendrils, evil incarnate, reared back. They bowed, they submitted to him. He was in control.

He was Master of Death.

Others may have used that title for immortality. But he wouldn't. The true Master of Death didn't fear death, didn't try to hide from it: he embraced it with open arms. But that would have to wait. For now, he had just one thing to do.

Raw magic pouring off of him, Harry waved his wand in a perfect circle —the symbol of life and death. 

"I claim my rightful title as Master of Death. In you, I infuse my mind, heart, magic, and soul." A beam of light, bright as the surface of the sun, emerged from his wand and connected with the corpse's chest. " _ Ochi intepciani, suflare viata, sufletul libertashi, inima desanja _ !"


	16. Return of the King

_**You can maintain power over people, as long as you give them something. Rob a man of everything, and that man will no longer be in your power.** _

#

"Is the Hogwarts team ready?" Ezra asked, as he turned on his heel and paced to the other end of the room, for the umpteenth time.

"Yes..." Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "Just like they were the previous fifteen times you asked. Minerva has it under control."

He blew out an unsteady breath. "I'm still not sure about this. Maybe we should push it back a few hours, wait 'til the Ministry's arse-up?"

"Ezra, you need to stop obsessing..."

"That's rich, coming from you —"

"You have enough on your mind as it is," the girl said; kind, but firm. Ezra's expression must have betrayed his recalcitrance, as she softened her voice. "Usually you would be the one telling  _ me _ that this... Listen, it's the best time to attack. It's the only time. Hogwarts needs it."

"But —"

"No. No buts. We have our job, and they have theirs. Alright?"

A flash of annoyance rippled through him, but he squashed it down and then nodded. He shivered. 

There was a faint buzzing coming from his wrist; it was his watch. Peering at its face, he frowned. Nine hours. Exactly nine hours until the attack. Two attacks, really. He should have been trying to sleep; both of them. But they had more important things to do.

He rushed to the table and penned a quick note:

_ We attack tomorrow. You know what to do. _

As he folded the slip of parchment, his fingers began to twitch, hands began to shake. It took him four tries to tie the note to the courier owl's leg, and more than once he swore under his breath as his fingers refused to exercise any of their usual dexterity.

To her credit, Hermione had not said a word as he wrote and sent off the letter, instead just watching him with a curious expression. But once the owl flew off into the night, she asked, "Who is that?"

"A man has to have at least one secret," said Ezra.

At this, Hermione didn't chuckle, or chastise him —she gave a strangled sob and covered her face with her hands.

He stood paralysed, legs frozen, as his best friend cried. What could he say? What could he do? Eventually, he forced his foot to take a step toward Hermione, and went to touch her shoulder, but she shrugged him off and shook her head, wiping the tears from her face with her sleeve. Quite suddenly, she fled the kitchen, but then returned a few minutes later holding a wooden box. His wand box.

By now, most traces of her tears had been erased, though her eyes were still a bit red. She gave him an apologetic smile.

"Harry," she said softly. The name emerged gracefully from her tongue —a name she hadn't said, really  _ used _ , in months. "I don't know how you got this box to Hogwarts."

Ezra couldn't help a small chuckle.

"I knew this day would come. Just... not like this." With a faraway look in her eyes, she held out the box to him in both hands.

Gingerly, he reached out and took the box. "Not like this," he affirmed. "But we don't have a choice."

"Do you... Are you ready for tomorrow?" Hermione asked.

"No," Ezra said. "Are you?"

"Never."

#

As had seemingly been the case since the beginning of time, endless gusts of wind surged outside, a perpetual offensive front met fearlessly by the walls and roof of the warehouse. Horrific groans and strained creaks were squeezed unbidden from the decades-old wood, a testament to the unrelenting forces that had assaulted the building for ages, but had not yet succeeded in their goal of blowing it away entirely.

"It's only proper that I offer you a final opportunity to withdraw," Minerva said, her typically sharp tone now quite tender. "I am not sure we'll be returning from this particular engagement."

Minerva was quite sure that Ezra had not been informed of this detail, but she chose not to mention that small oversight to the girls.

"For the last time —I'm coming," said Tonks, perhaps a bit irritably. "Nothing could convince me otherwise."

"I'm just doing my part, Professor." Lovegood reached into her bag and rummaged around for a moment before pulling out a pair of neon green glasses with lenses that were surely bigger than necessary. After examining the lenses for marks or disfigurations, she slipped them on. "If you and Hermione believe this needs to be done, I will do it wholeheartedly. We're with you to the end."

At these words, a feeling of warmth swept through Minerva; she grabbed her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. "Very well," she said after a moment. "Miss Tonks, I believe you know of a  _ discreet _ way onto the school grounds?"

"Right in one, Minerva," she said, hair transitioning between several shades of blue. "Meet me in front of Honeydukes."

The three witches Apparated to Honeydukes, and Tonks quickly led them inside the gaudy candy shop. With the other two on her tail, Tonks weaved through the tall, densely packed shelves, being sure to avoid the proprietor, Ambrosius Flume. Once assured that no one was watching them, they descended the rickety staircase into the damp cellar. 

Tonks hauled open a trap door hidden under a half-empty sack of Chocolate Kebabs, and was about to jump down into the hole but instead tripped on the wooden ridge and fell in. "Oh, bugger!" she exclaimed from the depths of the dark passageway.

Minerva harrumphed.

The journey down the passage was not what one might call pleasant. She had to stoop over to avoid hitting her head on the ceiling of the tunnel, and her back was not what it used to be. She had allowed Tonks and Lovegood to lead the way, wands lit, largely so that they would not see the discomfort she, Minerva, was in as they made the slow, tedious trek toward Hogwarts.

Never had she imagined having to  _ sneak _ into Hogwarts —her own school!—like she was some sort of wanted criminal. Well, in truth, she  _ was _ a wanted criminal. Oh, if Headmaster Dippet were here today...

How things had changed. Lucius Malfoy, headmaster? She herself had barely acclimated to the title —and then that horrible woman Umbridge had swept in, disgracing the charter, naming Malfoy as headmaster. Headmaster in name, at least. The Ministry had no right to meddle in the affairs of Hogwart; Hogwarts herself knew that. Hogwarts knew who her true leader was.

As they reached the other end of the long passage, Minerva's stomach began to churn, and she could feel a thin sheet of sweat on her forehead. It wasn't due to exertion, no, but nerves. Anxiety. Impatience. This was it. This was their chance.

"Are you ready?" she whispered unnecessarily. 

The girls nodded. Tonks adopted a stony expression and gripped her wand tighter; Lovegood just smiled and adjusted the glasses on her face.

The exit hole was far too small in Minerva's opinion, and she felt quite undignified as she crawled through it. When she emerged in the dim, stone hallway, she pulled herself to her feet and primly brushed the dirt from her robes. Before Lovegood crawled out, Minerva checked her hair and was pleased to note that no strands had escaped from the tight bun.

An inspection of her surroundings revealed that they were on the third floor, in the main tower. They had emerged from the hump of the statue of Gunhilda of Gorsemoor. Strange, but not oddly strange. This was Hogwarts, after all.

As soon as Tonks had righted herself, Minerva afforded a small sigh of relief. But not a second later, a despairing chill swept through her, and the deep, booming sound of an invasion alarm began to resonate through the walls of Hogwarts. Their entry had apparently not gone unnoticed.

_ Pop! _

Minerva jumped, pointing her wand at the source of the noise behind her. She scowled when she found herself face-to-face with Peeves. "Really, now."

"Minnie McHeadmistress —you're back!" the poltergeist exclaimed. He almost sounded like he'd missed her.

"Yes, but I'm afraid this will be the last time."

Peeves let out an over-exaggerated wail, but then turned his head when a chorus of distant shouts began to echo down the hall.

"There isn't much time," Minerva said. "Please, go and do whatever you can to delay them."

Peeves gave a flourished salute, turned, and flew down the hall.

Minerva watched him sail away before she snapped back to reality. "Come. We need to get to the headmaster's office."

She briskly led them in the opposite direction that Peeves had gone, and was about to take a step onto a moving staircase when Lovegood grabbed her arm.

"Wait."

Minerva frowned and fixed a gaze on the girl. "What is it, Miss Lovegood?"

"Not that way. Come on," the blond urged as she darted down a small corridor hidden behind a tapestry.

As soon as she had pulled the tapestry aside to follow the Ravenclaw down the hidden passage, Minerva heard a deafening explosion from behind her —followed by a manic cackle that could only have belonged to Peeves. She could hear the rattling of wood and stone, falling debris, screams and shouts; if she didn't know better, she would have thought Peeves had blown up the entire stairwell full of moving steps.

Surely he wouldn't have... Surely not?

The secret passage led to a narrow set of stairs which were anything but straight, whipping left, right, doubling back on themselves a few times, and generally causing Minerva to feel dizzy. "Are you quite sure you know where we're going?" she panted.

"Of course!" Lovegood didn't sound fazed at all. "These stairs go to the third, sixth, and second floors. And I think the greenhouses on Tuesdays," she added as an afterthought. 

_ If you say so _ , Minerva responded in her head. She didn't have the energy to say it out loud.

Finally, the stairs ended and deposited them behind the painting of Wysteria the Wise on the second floor. From their current position, they could hear shouts and orders and running steps, echoing through the numerous corridors and permeating the stone walls.

Minerva held up her hand and slowly pushed open the portrait until she could see through the crack into the hallway. It was clear. She swung it all the way open and climbed out, drawing her wand and creeping along the wall toward the headmaster's office, with Tonks and Lovegood at her back. The portrait behind her magically swung shut with an audible click.

When she turned the final corner before the headmaster's office, Minerva froze. Standing in front of her, in the middle of the path, was Lucius Malfoy. But he wasn't alone. Two witches flanked him: Bellatrix Lestrange and Alecto Carrow.

"My, my, what do we have here?"

A rustling of steps came from behind her. She didn't need to look to know that several more Death Eaters ( _ No _ , Minister Fudge would say,  _ they've been pardoned! _ ) had taken up positions behind the three witches —trapping them. 

Tonks shifted her feet; Lovegood seemed unconcerned.

"Lucius." Minerva sighed and crossed her arms. "Do get out of my way."

"Why should I do that?"

"We have very important business, and your presence is impeding our ability to attend to that business."

"You are trespassing on these grounds, Minerva," Malfoy said with a smooth chuckle. "I could have you arrested."

Lips pursed, Minerva raised her wand and pointed it directly at Malfoy's chest.

Malfoy laughed again, a regal, resounding laugh that echoed through the corridor; and soon after, the other Death Eaters joined in.

In a fluid motion, Minerva swept her wand in a wide arc and shouted, " _ Anima Libera _ !" All of the paintings in the hallway begin to emit a white light, and after a moment, wizards and creatures and beasts of all sorts jumped out of their portraits and landed on the floor. They stretched and flexed, taking in their new environs.

If not for the dire situation, the whole scene would have been quite amusing; small mammals and bugs skittered around the floor; witches and wizards, dressed in a wide array of armours, uniforms, and formal dinner attire, fought or ran or simply got in the way; large beasts, including elephants, giraffes, and trolls, trampled about, causing indiscriminate mayhem simply by way of their size.

As soon as the inhabitants of the portraits had joined the mortal realm, the Death Eaters had begun throwing spells every which way, intent to clear out the unforeseen obstacles and prevent the three invaders from getting to the Headmaster's office.

Under cover of the chaos, Minerva pushed her way through the crowd of new arrivals toward the gargoyle that guarded the headmaster's staircase.

"Go!" shouted Tonks. "We'll hold them off!" The ex-Auror turned and raised a shield just in time to deflect two hexes that would have surely turned her into dust. Three quick Stunners fired from her wand, one of which hit a Death Eater, knocking him unconscious.

Lovegood was waving her wand like a conductor leading an orchestra. "Be free, my Twinklebells!" Small, three-winged mushrooms were flying about in the air, singing and periodically tossing handfuls of sparkling dust onto the heads of Death Eaters below. Upon making contact with human skin, the dust particles would explode in a dazzling cloud of rainbows and fireworks, blinding and burning their targets. Haphazard jinxes and poorly aimed Killing Curses began to fly around the room as frustrated Death Eaters lost their patience, and tempers.

"Devon Rex," Minerva said to the gargoyle as she approached it. Nothing happened. She scowled; Malfoy must have changed the password.

"Open up, Gordon."

After a long moment, the gargoyle opened its mouth and began to speak, its voice guttural and raspy. "Very well."

"Now go —defend your school." As it stepped out her path, she tapped her wand on its head, whispering, " _ Expergo _ ." 

With a grating yell, the gargoyle rushed past her and joined the fracas.

"Tonks, Lovegood, let's go!" She rushed up the stairs, cursing her old knees at every step.

Tonks and Lovegood backed up the staircase, doing their best to defend against the onslaught from the ever-growing horde of Death Eaters gathering at the foot of the steps. By now, Tonks had been relegated to permanent defence duty, layering dozens of different shields against the assault of hexes that threatened to eviscerate both witches. Lovegood put up a valiant effort, but she was clearly tiring. Beads of sweat dripped down her face as her near-white hair bobbed and danced around her face, having long since escaped from its ponytail.

Now entirely out of breath, Minerva skidded into the office and with an improvident flick of her wand, shoved all of the furniture and baubles and questionable devices to the edges of the room. A keen eye quickly located the small notch engraved in the centre of the floor —the centre of the castle. The exact location where all four of the continent's Ley Lines intersected.

Doing her best to ignore the commotion just outside the office, Minerva shut her eyes and inhaled deeply. A comforting blanket seemed to descend upon her, muffling the sounds of chaos around her, embracing her, pulling her into contact with the castle's magic. The magic in her body pulsed and undulated, but the magic of the castle positively thrummed, singing with energy, dancing with life.

Hogwarts was sentient, alive. It had been since its founding. But it was also vulnerable —easily manipulated by those in power. Readily used as a vessel to indoctrinate students with new-world Ministry propaganda.

That was simply unacceptable. As Headmistress of Hogwarts, it was Minerva's duty to see that it did not happen. The honour and dignity of Hogwarts would be preserved at all costs.

She released her breath, and with it, control over her own magic. Her magic seeped into the stone floor underfoot, seamlessly melding with the ancient magic that powered Hogwarts. She was suddenly more  _ aware _ . She could hear the soft snores of the owls dozing in the Owlery. She could smell the mildew forming in the damp dungeons by the Slytherin common room. She could see, could  _ feel _ the spells flying in the corridor outside the office. The stalwart defence raised by Tonks and Lovegood, two witches who would literally die for a cause they believed in. 

She saw Lucius Malfoy cast a Killing Curse that ripped through a wall of colourful, translucent shields. She saw Bellatrix Lestrange cackle and launch a barrage of silver arrows that rained down onto the inhabitants of the stairwell. She felt the life —the very magic—leave Tonks and Lovegood as their bodies gave way to fate.

"This must end," Minerva whispered, her voice booming through the walls of Hogwarts. "Lady of Hogwarts, I release you from the confines of the castle. I relieve you of the duties imposed upon you by the founders. I free you from these shackles of darkness."

_**Thank you.** _

The ethereal voice resonated in her head, in her body, and in her soul. Minerva could feel the calming presence of the spirit of Hogwarts begin to dissipate, until at last it had disappeared entirely, leaving behind an empty void.

"Hogwarts..." she continued, legs and body shaking as she struggled to remain upright. "I strip you of your magic, and revoke the status of these grounds. The Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is no more."

A wave of energy washed through her, down to the stone floor, into the Ley Lines that radiated outward from her position; through the walls of the castle and the grounds beyond. Torrents of power surged, violently flushing out every last bit of magic that had found a home in the castle over the past centuries.

As the magic flooded out of the castle, Minerva felt herself growing weak. Her eyes were heavy, legs grew numb, vision was fading. The last thing she heard was a vibrant explosion that levelled the staircase and destroyed the door to the office.

#

Ezra clumsily weaved through the crowd of politicians, law enforcement agents, and various other Ministry employees, trying not to trod on too many toes as the sea of witches and wizards twisted and writhed around him. After all, his cloak made him invisible, but his body took up just as much space as always. Without needing to look, he knew, or at least was quite sure, that his two accomplices were following just behind him. He just had to make it to the gate without being detected.

"Watch where you're going!" exclaimed an elderly woman when he accidentally knocked into her shoulder. She spun around, wrinkly face set in an indignant scowl. "Who was that?"

Oops. He was pretty sure he recognised the woman; she was a longstanding member of the Wizengamot. Ezra grimaced and offered a silent apology, then ducked behind her and completed his haphazard journey to the gate.

Without wasting a single breath, Ezra drew his wand and aimed it at the Auror standing closer to him —it was Lockshaw, the man who had been on guard duty when he'd rescued Hermione from lockup.

" _ Imperio _ ."

Lockshaw's tense shoulders relaxed, his posture eased, and his deep frown was replaced by a more neutral expression. After confirming that the man was well under his control, Ezra repeated the curse on the other Auror standing guard.

Already Ezra was beginning to sweat from the exertion. It was difficult enough to hold a person under the Imperius, but controlling two trained Aurors simultaneously was downright arduous.

Like clockwork, Robbins and a disguised Hermione arrived at the gate.

"Robbins," said Lockshaw in an aimless monotone. "And friend. Please, go ahead."

Almost too easy.

The other Auror waved them through the gate, and Ezra fell back, allowing Robbins and Hermione to take the lead as they walked briskly toward the public lifts. Though the private Auror lifts would have deposited them much closer to the DMLE offices, they had decided last night that it wouldn't be worth the risk for Hermione —even posing as Robbins' guest—to be caught using them.

When the duo arrived at the lifts, they stood off in the corner, letting the streams of witches and wizards bypass them. Robbins was tapping his foot on the floor, clearly nervous, or impatient, or both.

At long last, Ezra fought his way through the crowd and tapped Robbins on the shoulder, letting him know he was ready. The Scot breathed an audible sigh of relief.

Riding the lift itself wasn't so difficult. Ezra just made sure he was pushed into the corner, with Hermione and Robbins standing in front of him like bodyguards. Fortunately, by the time the lift reached level two, the lift was entirely empty except for the three of them.

Ezra, still covered by the invisibility cloak, trailed Hermione and Robbins at a safe distance of several metres as they traversed the corridors toward the Auror offices. However, just as they were about to cut a left away from the administrative wing, two Aurors and one very, very unwelcome witch turned the corner ahead of them.

He felt his blood run cold.

#

Hermione was doing her best to control her breathing as she and Robbins led the way toward the Auror offices. Well, to be more accurate, Robbins was leading the way. And she was glad for it, too. Even if she had known the path, she doubted she would have been able to keep a straight head as they slowly approached what very well may have been a death trap.

Every fourth step, she would breathe in; hold it for four more steps; and breathe out. It was the only way to keep her heart rate under nominal control.  _ You can do this _ , she kept repeating to herself.

And just when she was really starting to believe it, Dolores Umbridge, flanked by two Aurors, turned the corner.

Hermione stopped dead in her tracks. It felt like the world had suddenly turned upside down on her. An image flashed in front of her eyes — _ Umbridge stooped over her, whip in hand, a crude smile on her face _ . Hermione shook her head, desperate to stamp the thought out.

"Hem, hem," the squat woman said, having also stopped in the middle of the corridor —blocking the path. She looked down at Robbins and the disguised Hermione, eyes full of enmity. "Auror Robbins. And, who might this be?"

_ "Hermione Jane Granger... or should I say, Janet Hunter?" _ Memory-Umbridge cackled, sending unbidden shudders through her body.

"Um, this is my cousin, ma'am," Robbins responded, clearly nervous given the extent that his Scottish brogue was seeping out. "Maurice Ringwald."

"Chief Umbridge, if you please," the woman said with no little arrogance. "Surely you're aware, boy,  _ civilians _ are not permitted in this part of the building."

Hermione ground her teeth, valiantly resisting the urge to draw her wand and hex the woman into next year.

"Yes, Chief Umbridge, of course. I —I just wanted to show her where I work."

"Be that as it may, even Aurors are not above the rules. Are they, Mr Robbins?"

"I... no, ma'am," he mumbled.

Without missing a beat, Umbridge turned and looked over 'Maurice.' Petite, with curly blond hair, grey eyes, and blue, satin robes adorned with a white sash.

_ "That was quite a clever little ruse you put on..." _ the memory of Umbridge breathed into her ear.  _ "I admire that." _

Hermione flinched.

"Because if Aurors were above the rules, who then? Secretaries? Students? Tsk, tsk." Umbridge shook her head as if disappointed in the actions of a small toddler. "Next thing we know, we would have filthy, despicable Mudbloods running our Ministry. Isn't that right, dear?"

The gleam in Umbridge's eye cut through Hermione like a scalpel. The woman's mouth twisted into a snarling grin that demonstrated her sheer mania.

_ "You lied to me... You embarrassed me... In turn, I'll do the same. I will break you. I will utterly humiliate you. And then I'll kill you." _

"It's a pity that you feel the need to flaunt the rules that the Ministry has so kindly set forth. I think both of you need to be taught a lesson."

_**Smack!** _ —Hermione could feel the sting on her cheek as if she were physically in Umbridge's office right now— _ Her head snapped to the side as Umbridge backhanded her, drawing blood that started to trickle down her face. _

Hermione knew she was meant to respond, but she couldn't. Her breathing had turned erratic; she was hyperventilating.

"Answer me, little girl," Umbridge ordered. "That's no way to act in front of the Chief Warlock. Maybe I'll teach you how to respect your superiors."

_ "Crucio!" _ memory-Umbridge screamed; but it was so real.

_ She cried as liquid fire screamed through her body, her veins, her arteries, her bones. Burning her to a crisp from the inside out, but leaving no mark. _

_ "Crucio!" _

_ Her nerves quaked, exploded, overwhelmed by the raw pain. It was ten times worse than it had ever been, but it was all the same. _

" _ CRUCIO _ !" But this time, it wasn't the memory of Umbridge that cast the Unforgivable Curse. It was Hermione, who had finally snapped, whipping her wand up in a blur and attacking the woman in front of her with the very spell that she, Hermione, had been subjected to.

Unbridled, unmitigated fury coursed through her, through her arm, through her wand, fuelling the Cruciatus Curse that she held on Umbridge. The horrid slag of a woman was on the ground, screaming, clawing at her eyes, having never been subject to this punishment before. Good.

It felt like eons, but surely it was only seconds that Hermione held the spell. It made her warm inside; but it tired her, it sucked the life out of her. Tears poured down her face as she tried to reconcile her fear, anger, guilt, whatever it was. For her, it seemed that time had slowed, or perhaps stopped, while she tortured Umbridge.

But then, time resumed normal speed. The two Aurors who had flanked the Chief Warlock jumped forward and fired a pair of Blasting Curses, which were absorbed by a very timely Alium shield on Hermione courtesy of Robbins' quick wand.

Immediately, a loud, piercing alarm began to sound.

#

This was one alarm that Ezra didn't need an Auror's manual to decode: Code Zero. An alarm that, when triggered, granted the Minister the unilateral right to immediately declare martial law. An alarm that, when triggered, caused all entrances of the Ministry, magical or otherwise, to seal shut. Lockdown.

But there were more pressing issues at hand. Robbins had engaged with Umbridge's two guards, roughly pushing Hermione behind him. She seemed to take advantage of the short reprieve to recover mentally; then, she cricked her neck, flourished her wand, and spun around Robbins to once again face her attackers, wand a blur as she showed the world just why she had been selected as the youngest Transfiguration Professor in history.

The sound of rapid footsteps tore Ezra from his musings and he twisted around, a Flagrum Charm already forming on his lips. The three Aurors who had just arrived were faced with the unfortunate end of a whip of fire, and they had to drop to the floor to avoid being scourged by third-degree burns. During the split-second respite, Ezra ditched the invisibility cloak, tossing it aside; it would only get in the way.

As the Aurors got to their feet, Ezra engaged them in a hellacious wand fight, the intensity of which caused the ambient air temperature to rise several degrees. Multicoloured bolts of light and lightning bolts sailed through the air, each avoided, blocked, absorbed, or deflected by the combatants. Ezra's holly wand danced in the air, whirring about, an extension of his own arm, casting faster than he could think. Sparks of electricity danced about his eyes, fingers, and wand as he flexed his magic muscles and took advantage of the bond that he had formed so many years ago with his wand. It felt  _ good _ .

Of the three Aurors, he only recognised two by face; and only one of them by name. Bennett. From experience, he knew that Bennett was a rather weak duellist —at least compared to the other Aurors—so once the opening parley of the spell fight had evened off to a feasible cadence, he turned his focus toward her. Eventually, a swarm of ninja stars broke through her shield; two sliced her arm and she shrieked. A followup Stunner knocked her unconscious.

As he turned his attention to the other two, he was suddenly knocked back several feet and he landed painfully in a pile of rubble; his hip took the brunt of the damage. Rolling to the side, he raised his wand and silenced one Auror, but was suddenly hit with a Full Body-Bind Curse from the other. His legs and arms snapped to his side and he fell back on the floor, eyes wide as he watched the one remaining Auror who had adopted a mutinous expression.

The Auror began to cast a Suffocation Jinx, but he suddenly stopped, eyes clouding over and face losing its expression altogether. He fell to the ground. Behind him stood Finley, who pinned Ezra with a cheeky grin.

A quick counter-curse later and Ezra jumped to his feet. They both turned to the last Auror —Hook-Nose, as Ezra called him in his head—who was still trying to remove the Silencing Charm. Finley hit him with a Sleeping Charm; Ezra was feeling a lot less generous, instead opting for a Concussive Hex.

Then, with a pert wave of his wand, Ezra blew up the corridor, collapsing it in on itself. It would take the Aurors several minutes to clear it.

Now that that was all sorted —Ezra finally had time to process his shock at seeing Finley. He didn't know how she knew to be here, but he was certainly glad for it.

"Thank you," he said.

Finley smiled, but didn't otherwise respond. Yet something unspoken passed between them: understanding.

#

Hermione and Robbins were locked in a stalemate with Umbridge and her two Aurors. Every lethal hex they cast was dodged or blocked; every spell Robbins threw was deflected or absorbed; every transfiguration Hermione made was nullified. The one silver lining in this situation was the fact that Umbridge was absolutely livid; her cheeks were splotched red, frizzy hair stuck out in all directions, and she spat her curses as if they had personally called her  _ ma'am _ instead of  _ Chief _ .

Finally, the stalemate broke when two jinxes emerged from behind her and crashed into the Aurors' shields, shattering them and knocking the wizards unconscious. At this point, Umbridge's eyes widened and she shrieked, turning on her heel and taking off around the corner.

_ No! Not a chance. _ Ignoring the debris and bodies littering the floor, Hermione took off, hot in pursuit.

"Hermione, no!"

That miserable...  _ hag _ ! No, she wouldn't let her escape. Chest heaving, legs burning, Hermione chased her through the corridors, ignoring Ezra's protests behind her. At long last, she emerged in a large room. Umbridge was doubled over, panting, but she was smiling... A sinister, evil grin. And after a second, it became clear why: some half dozen Aurors surrounded Hermione in a semicircle, wands raised with tips glowing.

With vehement shouts, the Aurors cast their spells, but they never hit her. Instead, two yellow overlapping bubbles popped into existence around her; so thick she could barely see through them, so strong she could feel the magic venting off of them. A chorus of notes rang through the air as waves of lethal spells impacted the bubble shields, displacing so much energy that small shock waves rippled through her, tingling as they interacted with her own magic.

"Hermione!" That was Harry —Ezra. He and Robbins and the new girl (apparently a friend of Ezra's) dashed in and started taking on the Aurors. But Hermione only had eyes for one woman. The pandemonium around her faded from her mind as she marched toward Umbridge, eyes murderous and heart racing.

Suddenly, Hermione flicked her wand and conjured a flock of geese that began to fly around and peck at the woman. Umbridge screamed, killing all of them with a few well-placed Killing Curses, then sent back a wave of fire in reparation. 

Rather than conjure a physical barrier, Hermione simply summoned a large slab of concrete —courtesy of someone else's duel, probably Ezra's—in front of her to absorb the flame. Then, she banished it toward Umbridge and transmuted it into lead for good measure.

Dolores Umbridge tried to dive out of the way of the hurtling deathtrap, and she mostly succeeded, but her leg was still caught by the edge of the block. The leg immediately snapped, and she screamed in pain as blood began to spurt from the artery that had been exposed to the world. An ugly snarl overtook her face and she yelled, " _ Crucio _ !"

Unfortunately for Umbridge, her aim was wide, and the curse missed Hermione's neck by inches. In turn, the girl waved her wand in a hook shape, then punctuated the motion with a final jab. " _ Luto Essentia _ !"

The snarl on Umbridge's face quickly evaporated, leaving behind... confusion. Then concern. Finally, it turned into panic. Umbridge put her hand to her chest; she was struggling to breathe. Eyes were wide; she looked around, but she couldn't speak, much as she tried. As her skin turned pale, she began to cough, but the coughs were dry, empty, raspy. Eventually, she fell to the side, eyes still open, unseeing —dead. Where once blood had flowed, now thick, brown liquid oozed from her leg onto the floor. Mud.

A fitting end for Dolores Umbridge.

#

"I guess Sturch was right on the mark —traitor!" shouted Hughes as he flicked his wand to knock aside an incoming Stunner.

Cartwright jabbed her wand forward, shooting spears of ice toward Ezra. "I always knew you were hiding something, Rowe!"

" _ Valens Aegis _ !" The Valence barrier glimmered blue, humming as the shards of ice impacted it and were deconstructed into small jets of cold water that soaked Ezra's robes. Better than being stabbed. 

In response, Ezra conflagrated the ground around the girl, causing her to jump back and turn her focus toward not being burnt to a crisp. With Cartwright temporarily occupied, he was able to concentrate fully on the half-blood. "You've lost grip of reality, Hughes!" Ezra hissed as an Exsanguination Curse sailed past his head, just millimetres from his ear. "What would your mum think? She's a  _ Muggle _ , and look who you've aligned yourself with!"

" _ Conlisus Quasso _ !" shouted Hughes. The Concussive Hex missed Ezra, but it still impacted with the desk behind him, causing a shock wave which knocked him from his feet. "So what? She's dead —and I say good riddance!"

A Barrier-Eroding Hex impacted with the pile of rubble behind which Ezra had temporarily taken refuge. He snarled and twisted away, shooting a wave of iron arrows toward Cartwright, who by now had extinguished the flames around her and had resumed her own spell-casting.

"Well you chose the wrong side!" Twisting his hand palm-up, Ezra snapped his wrist upward, releasing a Ground-Rupturing Curse which raced along the cement floor toward Hughes, opening a wide trench as it travelled, effortlessly flinging chunks of wood, stone, and other debris to the side.

That curse marked the end of the verbal jousting match. Hughes leapt to his feet and cast an underpowered but still effective Hover Charm on himself to avoid major injury, subsequently flickering a Strobe Charm to buy himself a few seconds reprieve. From that point, the spell fight devolved into a dizzying light show of hexes and curses, none of which could reasonably be deemed legal.

The air around them seemed to charge up with energy as the spells between Ezra, Hughes, and Cartwright increased in ferocity. Random sparks, crackles of magic, danced and jumped throughout the room as pockets of air ionised due to the intense energy fields generated by the rapidly flying spells. More than once, Ezra yelped as a green or red spark emerged out of nowhere and zapped him.

It was during one of these moments of distraction that Hughes sent off a Flaying Hex so strong that it ripped through Ezra's hastily-constructed Murus Spell. If he'd had the time, he would have simply dove out of the way, but conjuring the iron shield had been his next best option. The magical cattails melted through the metal and raked his skin, drawing three deep gashes down his chest and left ribcage. 

With a pained yell, Ezra slashed his wand at the attacker, releasing from his wand the first spell that came to mind: Hellfire.

An unearthly scream rent the air as a demon-shaped plume of liquid fire raced toward Hughes. The residual heat emanating from the projectile was so intense that desks some ten metres away ignited. It was all Hughes could do to raise his wand in the face of the inferno, but the look of utter shock on his face told those present everything they needed to know about his fat.

As soon as the wave of flame reached its destination, Ezra cancelled the spell, knowing just how dangerous it could be to leave it untended. All that was left of Hughes was a small pile of charred, blackened bones.

Immediately, Ezra turned his attention to Cartwright, who had momentarily stared at the unfortunate remains of her partner, but had the presence of mind to snap back to reality before she met a similar fate. With only one opponent, Ezra was faring much better than he had been; though Cartwright was quite a skilled fighter, he was better. It wasn't arrogance, just observation.

Even then, however, the Hellfire Curse had taken a lot out of him. He knew he shouldn't have done it —after all, this was about the war, not the battle—but there was no point crying over spilt potion.

By now, his hair was a grimy, ash colour. It was knotted, sweaty, matted to his forehead. He panted as he alternated offensive and defensive spells —it was only a matter of time before Cartwright slipped. Sure enough, three shields and five hexes later, the girl stuttered when conjuring her Mirror Shield, and Ezra disarmed her and then knocked her out. Gasping for breath, he walked up to her, kicked her once, and then snapped her wand, tossing the pieces on the floor.

" _ Expelliarmus _ !"

As if in slow motion, his trusty holly wand leapt from his hand. Not so trusty anymore. Ezra took a deep breath. Really, it had been his fault. He shouldn't have over-committed. He shouldn't have been so arrogant as to believe no one else would attack him when the opportunity presented itself.

Amidst the background noise of continued spell fights and swears and shouts, Ezra slowly turned around while raising his hands in the universal gesture of surrender.

"Well, well, well," said Simon Appleby. The mousy boy snickered, his pale face twisting into a derisive sneer. "The traitor now begs for mercy."

Ezra looked around, evaluating his options. Appleby now had possession of his wand. The other members of his party had drifted to the far corners of the large office space, engrossed in their own battles. Apparition was certainly not an option. Things were not looking good.

At the sound of wood snapping, Ezra's eyes shot back to Appleby.

"Oops," the Auror said with an insincere smile. "My fingers must have slipped." He dropped the pieces of Ezra's wand to the ground.

Ezra gasped; it felt like someone had punched him in his stomach and twisted his intestines around for good measure.  _ My wand... _

"I think it's about time we cleaned house," said a new voice, a very feminine voice. Pilkington. She came to stand next to Appleby and raised her wand to point straight at Ezra's chest.

Appleby snorted and then grinned, baring his suspiciously white teeth.

Ezra found himself staring deep into Pilkington's eyes. If he were to be honest with himself, they were quite pretty. A temperate brown; surprisingly warm.

"Do you know what I do to traitors?" the girl asked. Her voice was stone cold.

"Why don't you go ahead and tell him?" Appleby said amidst another bout of guffaws.

"I kill them."

Pilkington waved her wand in a complicated motion and shouted, " _ Telum Inmittus _ !" But at the very last moment, she swung her wand around to point at Appleby's head.

Appleby, standing less than a metre from Pilkington, had no time to react. In less than a tenth of a second, a large, jagged knife —Nott's knife—found itself embedded in the wizard's skull. Appleby instantly dropped to the floor, very dead.

Pilkington fixed him with an unreadable look. "Now, we're even," she said flatly. Without another word, she turned and ran out of the office.

Ezra stared at her retreating form for some time longer than he should have —then shook his head to clear it. Wrinkling his nose, he leaned down and plucked Appleby's wand from his hand. It would have to do.

Quickly locating his quarry, Ezra dashed off to the opposite end of the room, ignoring a Praesix guard that ran past him toward, it seemed, the Lord Marshal's office. Instead, he raised his ill-gotten wand, balanced it in his hand for a moment to test its weight, and shot off a curse whose name he frankly didn't remember. The jagged indigo light smashed into the back of an Auror who had been trying to cast a Killing Curse at Hermione; the man immediately crumpled to the ground. 

Hermione flashed him a smile as he ran to her side.

"Are you okay?" he panted.

Sweat streamed down her face and neck; cheeks were flushed; typically-frizzy hair was a downright mess. But she had never looked more beautiful.

"Now I am." 

" — _ Exhalum _ !"

Ezra only heard the last half of the incantation, but he spun around and erected a Mirror Shield which reflected the Blood-Boiling Hex right back to its attacker, who let out an ear-piercing scream as his own blood began to heat up and burn his muscles, organs, and bones from the inside out.

Likewise, Hermione twisted around, turning her attention to an unnamed assailant behind her, pressing back against Ezra as she valiantly defended their position. Back-to-back they fought, moving as one, magic intimately entwined as a witch and a wizard did what they could to survive.

The steady stream of Aurors and Praesix guards into the office grew ever faster, stronger. Up until now, each new entrant had been engaged and soundly dispatched by Robbins, Finley, Hermione, or Ezra. But by now, Robbins was obviously tiring, as was Hermione. Ezra was beginning to stagger due to blood loss. Finley was God-knows-where. The Ministry reinforcements had arrived, and they were only growing. Soon, no amount of magic or skill or alacrity could save them.

But it didn't matter. Ezra was where he wanted to be. Where he needed to be —with the person he needed to be with. He could feel her body pressed against his; could feel her erratic breathing, her heart racing, her magic flowing as she fought for her country's freedom. As they fought for their lives.

And then, it came. The dreaded curse. The curse he'd dreamed of for seventeen years.

_ Avada Kedavra! _

He sensed more than heard the incantation —it rang in his head, clawed at his heart. The green flash overwhelmed his field of his vision; he could see nothing else. He spun around, knowing in the very depth of his soul that it was too late. There, not ten metres away, stood Augustus Rookwood, Head of the DMLE, face triumphant as the cone of green light emerged from the tip of his wand and enveloped Hermione Jane Granger.

Time seemed to slow down inexorably. It was cruel, forcing him to live out this moment in slow-motion. Hermione's expression was one not of fear, but of genuine surprise: perhaps it was surprise at finding herself face-to-face with the Director; or maybe surprise that she had not been able to conjure a shield in time. Who knew?

He watched as the mist of life departed from her final breath, and she fell to the ground, limp.

Harry Potter, a man who now called himself Ezra Rowe, fell to his knees, cradling the girl's head in his lap.  _ No! _ he screamed into the timeless void.  _ Not Hermione! _

But deep, deep in the recesses of his mind, in a place he hadn't dared explored or even allowed to be exposed to reality: he knew the truth. At some point, he had imagined this possibility, and stashed it away, never to be found or thought of again. And, if he were being particularly honest with himself —he had recognised that it was more than a possibility... A near certainty.

How could he have thought otherwise?

He took her hand in his, gripping it tight as if he could squeeze the life back into her. He screwed his eyes shut, forcing the tears gathered between his eyelids to seep out and trickle down his cheeks. 

Slowly, he inhaled, allowing the deep breath of oxygen to fill his lungs, his mind, his soul. A moment of clarity, purpose, settled onto him. A small smile graced his lips. He released her hand, rose to his feet...

#

"Would you say that you loved her?" asked the Unspeakable, quietly.

"Yes, I do."

"Do you mean you are still in love with her?"

"I mean that I will always be. Death is not an escape from love. It is simply another door waiting to be traversed."

"When did you first know?"

"Do you remember," Indigo murmured, "I told you about the night I returned from Aurum Vale? I visited Hermione that evening."

_ His gaze drifted to the desk in the corner of the room... A small smile drifted across his face when he saw the syllabus-in-progress on the desk... But that smile quickly evaporated to be replaced by a pensive expression when he spotted a sealed envelope relegated to the back corner of the desk. _

_ An envelope addressed to him. _

_ With a fleeting look toward the door, he snatched the letter and dropped it into one of the inner pockets of his robe. _

Hand shaking, Indigo 9733 reached into the pocket of his threadbare uniform and pulled out that envelope; an envelope that had clearly seen better days. It was wrinkled and shabby, sporting a faded, off-yellow colour, with a few small tears along the edges —but it was otherwise intact.

"That's contraband..." the Unspeakable muttered, more to himself than anything. But he took the proffered letter and stared at the addressee.

_**Harry James Potter** _

"May I?"

Indigo jerkily nodded, and the Unspeakable Magus gingerly slid the letter from the envelope. Then, he unfolded it and laid it on the table in front of him.

_ Harry. Harry Potter. _

_ I don't know where you've gone off to this summer, and it has me worried sick. If you get this, please respond, even if it's to say "I hate you". Every day I wish I could apologise for what I said. And now I've run you off. _

_ In truth, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to accept this whole situation, Dumbledore and the Elder Wand be damned. I've hated this charade from day one. The past year has been impossible, what with both you and Ezra running around; having to lie to everyone's faces. I know why you chose not to tell Ron, and I promised I would keep your secret _ _ —but it doesn't mean I hate it any less. _

_ But... Harry, I miss you. Please come back. I want to see you. And most importantly, despite everything _ _ —I believe in you, so much. I know that you will be able to do what I was unable to. _

_ Love, _  
_ Hermione _

The room was silent as the Unspeakable read through the letter, text that had been written by an anxious —and loyal, courageous—girl over fifty years ago. Eventually, he looked back to Indigo, expression masked as always by the hood worn low over his face.

"I knew, when I read that letter... I loved her. It was because, even at my worst, even when everyone else decried me, questioned my motives... when no one else believed in me: she did. We had our disagreements, arguments. Even that very night when I returned. But underlying all of it, all of her anger, her stubbornness, our rows —she believed in me.

"You have to understand: everything I did, I did for her. Not for society, not for Dumbledore, not for myself. She tempered me; she anchored me to this world —this horrible, wretched, unjust world. She gave me something to fight for.

"But that day, Rookwood spat in the face of Fate when he killed her." Indigo slowly shook his head, pure hatred burning in his eyes. "You can maintain power over people, Unspeakable, as long as you give them something. Rob a man of everything —and that man will no longer be in your power."

#

...and opened his eyes. With a gut-wrenching cry, Ezra raised his arms above his head, allowing the ambient magic in the air to collapse into him, feeding him, strengthening him. A cyclone of distilled magic —pure, colourless energy—whirled around him; his eyes blazed white, blue and purple plasma sparking between his irises and the wall of magic surrounding him.

A brilliant flash of light, only microseconds in duration, temporarily blinded the occupants of the room; and when it had passed, Ezra suddenly felt a cold, uncomfortable weight in his right hand. 

The Elder Wand. A wand he had never intended to use for destruction —only creation. But the wand had made its decision. Without a second thought, Ezra whipped the wand down toward his target, and allowed it to do what it did best: destroy.

Power surged through his body as a beam of energy emerged from the wand, incinerating Augustus Rookwood as if he were a piece of parchment in an inferno. The Praesix and Aurors around him attacked, unleashing the most deadly of spells in their arsenal, but deadly didn't mean a thing when confronted by the Master of Death.

The world around him blurred as magic poured out of his body, scorching his hand, his entire arm, focused through the wand that only one person alive had ever had the privilege of using. Aurors fell to the ground; Praesix collapsed left and right; walls and ceilings were obliterated, incinerated, or conflagrated as Ezra poured his emotions, his magic, his soul into the very device that had turned his world upside down.

A small part of his brain saw Robbins eventually fall to an Auror's Killing Curse, but he barely acknowledged it, instead racing out of the room with one goal in mind: find Cornelius Fudge. As he sprinted toward the Minister's office, men and women of all ilk attacked him, trying to stop him; but to the power of his wand they fell, whether Praesix, Auror, or the lowest of administrative staff. 

Behind him was left a trail only of utter destruction; marble statues, wooden doors, granite columns, concrete walls —all destroyed. Nothing could stand in his way.

When he approached the door to the office of the Minister for Magic, Ezra snarled, but took a deep breath. He was beginning to tire: it wasn't that the wand was failing him, rather, the other way around. The immense power flowing through his body was taking its toll; he couldn't support it forever.

But he didn't need forever. With a flick of the Elder Wand, the Minister's door was blasted off of its hinges. Inside, Fudge shrieked and leapt behind his desk for cover. Two Praesix guards jumped toward him, Killing Curses already emerging from their wands, but the wizards had already signed their death certificates; both were decapitated by a razor blade of pure magic. Another flick of the wand and Ezra summoned two dead Aurors from down the hall to absorb the Killing Curses.

Ezra was quickly becoming weary. No longer did the wand seem to read his thoughts, instead, he now had to say or think his incantations. No matter. The end was nigh.

Three more Praesix befell similar fates to their comrades. At last, the Lord Marshal, formerly Ezra's instructor at Aurum Vale, leapt in front of Fudge and released a deluge of curses so powerful that space seemed to bend around them. Each one of them was parried, but Ezra could feel his bones and teeth jarring each time. Quickly, he returned fire with a bolt of black lightning that the Lord Marshal blocked —barely. Unfortunately, he could not block the followup Exsanguination Curse, which hit him directly in the heart. After just a few seconds, the Caretaker's last drop of blood had departed his body.

Fudge whimpered from behind his desk, crouching down as if offering less of a target would really help. At the same time, he was still furiously rifling through drawers, scattering various parchments, writing instruments, and other office supplies all over the floor as he frantically searched for something. 

With a snarl, Ezra raised his wand at the man —

Suddenly, Fudge grabbed hold of the small pendant he'd fished from under a packet of cigars, yelling, "Refuge!" Immediately, the Portkey activated and the man disappeared.

With an enraged scream, Ezra seized the energy in the air around him,  _ pulling _ it in, depriving the environs of the natural magic that rightfully inhabited it. The Elder Wand, of course, was wretched, perverse —it had no qualms about violating the natural order of the universe. The lights in the room flickered, the air shimmered, the ground trembled... and then, with a horrifying  _**BOOM!** _ , Ezra Disapparated, ripping through centuries of wards that protected the Ministry of Magic, following the cowardly trail left through the ether by a Minister for Magic who tried, and would inevitably fail, to run from his fate.

"CORNELIUS FUDGE!" Ezra roared, voice echoing down Diagon Alley.

Passers-by turned to stare at the deranged wizard, his white hair stuck out at odd angles, standing on end; odd sparks of magic dancing around him; robes torn and bloody, drenched in sweat. He was tired. The fight had taken so much out of him. The wand had drained him. But he was so close. 

The Boy-Who-Rebelled, Ezra Rowe, marched down the cobblestone street, each resolute step bringing him that much closer to Fudge, who had whipped his head around upon hearing his name called, who had paled to a shade of white that could not be called human, who was trying to run, stumbling —clearly injured—toward the end of the alley. A dead end, so to speak.

But at long last, Ezra caught up to the Minister, grabbing him by the front of his robes and slamming him against the brick brick wall of Ollivander's. The crowd that had slowly gathered began to whisper, yell, scream, but no one dared interfere.

Death danced in Ezra's eyes; terror raged in Fudge's.

With a shaking hand, Ezra brought his wand up, digging it into Fudge's windpipe, causing the man to start rasping as he struggled to breathe. The tip of the Elder Wand was heating up; Ezra could see it, Fudge could feel it.

The Minister was here, right where he wanted him. And yet, Ezra hesitated. Could he do it? Did he even have the strength?

Fudge gasped for breath, trying to feed his lungs oxygen they needed despite the wand jammed unceremoniously into his neck. As every long second of Ezra's indecision passed, the look in the Minister's eyes turned gradually from terror, to vacant curiosity, then finally to derision. "What's wrong?" he finally wheezed. "Too much of a  _ coward _ to kill a man in cold blood?"

Ezra's hand jerked. His fingers were becoming sweaty; he lessened the pressure of the wand against the Minister's neck.

At this, Fudge scoffed. "The real world is so much different than you imagined. Your little rebellion isn't what it promised. You thought it would be cool to join a club, to wear an Auror's uniform. Be an underdog, a recusant, defy your Ministry." He snorted. "You romanticise standing up to your government —but this is real life, son. At the end of the day, you would never kill the Minister for Magic in broad daylight. Certainly not with hundreds of people watching."

"Minister for Magic?" Ezra hissed. "Only in name. You've spent years as Voldemort's puppet, bowing to the likes of Malfoy, Rookwood, Lestrange... Persecuting Muggle-borns, half-bloods, blood traitors —anyone who didn't fit your ideal image of a wizard." Despite his anger, small tears began to gather in the corners of his eyes. "I started this journey because I wanted to wrong a right. It's that simple."

Cornelius Fudge gritted his teeth and fixed Ezra with a stony gaze. "There is a natural order to this world, and those who try to upend it do not fare well. This movement won't survive sundown. If you kill me, so what? Your whore is already dead. You will be imprisoned, shamed, and killed. And for what? For what? No matter who you kill, ten more of us will rise up. No matter what you do, it will never amount to anything more than a single drop in a limitless ocean."

"What is an ocean but a multitude of drops?" murmured Ezra. Then, with tears running down his cheeks, he closed his eyes and whispered, " _ Diffindo _ ."

Spurts of blood pulsed from the man's carotid artery, spilling onto his robe and seeping down onto the ground beneath him. Within seconds, Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, bled out.

With a strangled sob, Ezra dropped the Elder Wand.

And then, he heard running footsteps behind him —more screams and shouts and commands. Praesix guards, no doubt. But he was too tired to defend himself. He would accept the inevitable.

" _ Avada Kedav _ —"

"STOP!"

The crowd gasped and a flood of whispers erupted. With a pronounced frown, Ezra slowly turned around to identify the cause of the commotion.

Striding toward Ezra, the crowd parting effortlessly before him, was a man dressed in pitch black, unmarked robes, and a raised hood that masked his face entirely. Unlike nearly every other person in the vicinity, the man did not wear a sash, but surprisingly, the Praesix did not seem put off by this.

Soon, the mysterious man reached the scene of the crime and raised his wand in the air.

"I am Unspeakable Magus. Per the Ministerial Succession Clause, I claim the title and responsibilities of Minister for Magic."

A brief burst of magic swirled around him and then faded up into the sky. The three Praesix guards who had been about to kill Ezra instead rushed to surround the newly-appointed Minister.

"On your knees, boy," he commanded.

Ezra could do nothing but comply.

The new Minister gestured at the Praesix guard on his left, who ran up to Ezra and magically shackled his hands behind his back.

"There's much disagreement on what should be done with you, Mr Rowe. The Unspeakables —my department—are requesting to have you studied. Chief Umbridge wanted you flogged, beaten, and publicly executed. The Aurors are demanding you be transferred into their custody, claiming DMLE jurisdiction. However, the problem you create is a political one. Which means you're my problem.

"As an insurgent, the doctrines you edify, your calls to arms, your very presence invokes civil unrest. What that means is, hidden in plain sight, even in this very crowd, you already have devoted followers. But I won't let you die as a martyr, no. Death doesn't inhibit revolution, it only kindles it. Instead, I will make an example out of you. All that know of and idolise your deeds, your beliefs, even your very name —will know the utter agony that you will experience. Most importantly, Mr Rowe, in a year, or five years, or fifty years: your name will be forgotten, lost to the annals of time.

"Inform the Judicator. Take this filth to Tower Indigo."

#

"On your knees, boy," the new Minister commanded.

Ezra Rowe dropped to his knees, putting his hands behind his back.

_ It's time. _

The Praesix guard, cover name Occula Six, spun around and began to sprint toward the Apparition point at the far end of the alley. "Out of my way!" he ordered as he forced his way through the thick droves of civilians aimlessly milling about. Several of them were hastily knocked aside by Banishing Charms —maybe they should have learned how to bloody pay attention.

As he ran, he could feel the sweat beading at his hairline, no doubt due to the heavy-as-sin helmet he was required to wear, stifling his head. An eternity later, he finally arrived at his destination and immediately Apparated to the foyer of the Ministry.

By now, the Code Zero alarm had ceased, but the main gate into the Ministry proper was still guarded by a row of six Aurors with Legion Shields.

"The insurrection is quelled!" he shouted, voice booming across the lobby. "Step aside!"

"Negative!" the Field Commander shouted back, "We have strict orders from Langley: no one in or out."

"The Lord Marshal has sent me personally. Step aside at once!"

"Negative —"

Occula Six snarled and waved his wand, releasing a Blasting Curse that utterly annihilated the floor beneath the Aurors, knocking all of them aside like rag dolls.

Time was absolutely of the essence. Occula Six rushed past the gate and descended the staircase to the Department of Mysteries, quickly navigating toward the Room of Silence. Taking a deep breath, he flung open the door and marched inside.

"Echo Twelve," he said to the other Praesix in the room, nodding his head in greeting, hoping the other man couldn't hear his pounding heart.

"What is it?" Echo Twelve said gruffly, clearly not one for pleasantries. 

He pulled out a document from the inner pocket of his armour and waved it in the air. "Authorisation from the Lord Marshal to erase a subject."

"Very well. Name?"

"Ezra Rowe. National Registry: one zero four three one seven zero five."

The two wizards turned to face the sparkling pane of glass that adorned the far wall of the small room. As one, they raised their wands and spoke:

"The past informs the present; the present informs the future. Let the curse of life outlast this memory; let the grace of death seal it shut. _ Obliviate Latus, Deleus Vim Extermina. _ "

A soft hum began to fill the room, and the glass panel started to ripple while cycling through the colours of the rainbow. The hum slowly grew into a strong buzz, and then a deafening wail. The glass panel was undulating, bubbling, flashing through colours so quickly that it was impossible to tell them apart.

Suddenly, the glass shattered into a million pieces, and the wailing stopped. Erasure Totus was complete.

And then, when Echo Twelve turned his back to begin repairing the glass pane, one final spell rent the air:

" _ Avada Kedavra _ ."

After all, two can keep a secret, if one is dead.

#

"October 22, 1998," the Unspeakable said, opening a thin, beige docket and scanning over it. "One of the darkest days in British history. That morning, you and your friends caused over fifteen million Galleons' worth of damage to the Ministry; you murdered a hundred and twenty-nine Ministry employees in cold blood; you assassinated four of the highest-ranking government officials in the country."

"I'm only sorry it wasn't more." Indigo stared coolly at the wizard across from him.

The Unspeakable harrumphed, snapping the docket shut. "And yet, here we are. I find it ironic that despite your immense efforts to topple this government, you have instead found yourself incarcerated, denied the very freedom you so valiantly fought for. A prisoner. With nothing to show for it except imminent execution. It  _ was _ your plan to overthrow the government that fateful Thursday morning, was it not?"

"It was."

"I..." the Unspeakable seemed to lose his words for a moment. "I don't understand. You had to know this scheme was doomed to fail."

"Yes."

"Then why did you do it?"

"I did it for her," whispered Indigo 9733, looking down at his hands. "And I did it because it was the right thing to do. My actions had to be consistent with my beliefs. After all, I was a protagonist in a story I believed in. The entire story isn't one of vengeance, or power —but of truth. What better truth than the one that exposes the atrocities of the Ministry to the world?"

"And what if no one believes this truth?"

"There is already someone who does, Unspeakable Nehemiah."

The Magus gasped and reared back, jumping from his chair as if he'd been electrocuted and knocking it from underneath him. "What —what did you just call me?" he asked, voice clearly betraying his panic despite his shrouded face. But he didn't wait for an answer—he stumbled back, pressing his head in his hands. "No... this—this can't be!" he half-screamed, half-whimpered, as he stumbled backward, staggering, tripping, his hand grasping blindly behind him as he searched for an escape. At long last, the Unspeakable, now quite clearly hyperventilating, found the door and rushed out.

Immediately the four Praesix guards jumped to attention and levelled their wands on Indigo 9733. One of the guards —he must have been the leader—lurched forward, grabbing Indigo roughly by the neck of his robe and yanking the old man to his feet.

"What —"

"Shut up, prisoner," the guard said, backhanding Indigo across the mouth.

"What... what are you doing?!" he gasped, wiping the fresh blood from his lip.

"Take him to execution!" the guard snarled, shoving Indigo forward and magically shackling his ankles and wrists.

With a whimper, Indigo fell to the ground, shaking —shivering. But the same guard grabbed him and yanked him once more to his feet. After a clipped command, the four Praesix guards formed a phalanx around him and began to march him, stumbling and wheezing, from the room. 

"Wait —please!"

The guard behind him wordlessly cast a Bone-Breaking Curse, cleanly shattering the man's shoulder.

"Silence!" the guard shouted when Indigo cried out in pain.

At long last, the party arrived at the dreaded execution room. The point guard pulled open the heavy metal door, grabbed Indigo by the hair, and threw him into the room. As the other three assumed sentry positions outside in the corridor, the lead guard silently entered the room behind Indigo and shut the door.

It was just the two of them.

Indigo was shoved face-first into the ash grey wall, and he felt the hard tip of a wand pressed painfully against the base of his neck. Then, silence.

"Please..." Indigo whispered, shivering —whether from cold, or pain, or anxiety, he didn't know.

The guard said nothing.

"Please, I'm begging you...!"

Finally, he felt the pressure on his neck ease.

"I... I can't," the Praesix guard whispered. "There must be another way."

Indigo took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, and slowly turned to stand face-to-face with the black, impenetrable helmet visor worn by the guard before him. "No," he whispered, "there isn't."

But the guard said nothing. Instead, he brought his hand up to remove the helmet, letting it fall to the floor. He slowly shook his head, and Indigo could see the tears running down his cheeks.

"Sturch —it needs to be done," said Indigo, bringing a shaking hand to rest on his shoulder. "Please. Everything hinges on this."

Oliver Sturch, Lord Marshal of the Praesix Command, screwed his eyes shut, as if trying to cut off the source of tears before they bled him dry. But it didn't seem to help. Wordlessly, he moved in and embraced the grimy wizard, taking care to avoid jostling his broken shoulder. "After all these years," he whispered into Indigo's ear, "I wasn't sure if... I had hoped something would change. You would have a new plan."

"I know," Indigo responded, so quietly that even Sturch could barely hear him. "But... nothing has changed. Fifty years ago, you swore you would see an end to this. We're at the end, Sturch."

A long silence stretched between them before, finally, the Lord Marshal nodded. He pulled back from his embrace and pushed Indigo away. With a stony expression, he stared at the resolute man in front of him.

Indigo 9733. Ezra Rowe.

The man, now prisoner, who had approached Sturch during their time together at Aurum Vale: the one who had seen a boy's transparent attempts to fit in as an intolerant bigot. The man who had requested —no, demanded—that Oliver Sturch invoke Erasure Totus, and in doing so, ensure that all records and memories of Ezra Rowe be erased. The man who had been granted a final interview with the Unspeakable Magus under the authority of Minister Lestrange.

A broken man. A man who had given everything he knew; who had sacrificed everything he had. One who had meticulously arranged the pieces of this chess board for fifty years —and who had just played his final move.

With an agonised howl, His Supremacy, the Lord Marshal of Britain, Oliver Sturch, whipped his wand up and screamed, " _ AVADA KEDAVRA! _ "

Indigo's lifeless body fell to the floor.

The Queen was in position.

#

_ "Have you ever questioned or denounced the ultimate sovereignty or authority of the Ministry of Magic?" _

_ "No, Unspeakable Magus." _

_ "Have you ever conspired against the Ministry of Magic, or acted in such a way as to endanger any public official of Britain?" _

_ "No." _

_ "Have you ever knowingly associated with a dissident or terrorist?" _

_ "No." _

_ "Have you ever held any beliefs contrary to the precepts set forth by the Ministry of Magic?" _

_ "Never. The Ministry is the sole source of truth." _

_ " _ Legilimens _!" _

_ A foreign presence invaded his mind, ripping through memories, thoughts, impressions. Not a single stone was left unturned as the torrid force rifled through the entirety of his being like a book. A constant stream of memories rushed before his eyes as the intruder dissected every thought he'd ever experienced from this very moment all the way back to the day he had first entered this world. At long last, the pressure eased and the assault stopped _ _ —just as suddenly as it had started. _

_ "Very well. And do you vow to dedicate your work, your time, and your life to the Department of Ministries, and by extension, the Ministry of Magic?" _

_ "I do." _

Unspeakable Nehemiah —known to most as Unspeakable Magus—stumbled down the long, empty corridor of Tower Indigo. Flashes of memories assaulted him, unbidden, unwelcome. Memories of long, long ago—his first interview to join the Unspeakables; the first of many. A trying, gruelling series of interviews that had brought him to where he was today. But there were others, too, other thoughts roiling in his head; some familiar, others not. A relentless surfeit of memories crashing about, clearly waiting to be relived, or released, but none seemingly willing to still long enough to be plucked out.

_**Nehemiah** _ , Indigo's voice reverberated in his head. How had the prisoner known his name? And —and what was happening? His head ached, no, it absolutely pounded, throbbing relentlessly in his ears, sending streaks of pain coursing through his neck and down his body into his extremities. The thoughts in his head whirled faster and faster, an onslaught of impressions, each of which rushed by tantalisingly—so close, yet so far away. Imagery that was just so... familiar?

Faster and faster the memories screamed past his mind's eye, until suddenly —

_ "Do you understand the burdens I'm placing on you?" asked the bleach blond wizard _ _ —Ezra Rowe. Yes, that was the wizard's name. _

_ "Yes, I understand," he felt himself saying. His mouth was foggy, full of cotton, as if he hadn't spoken in an eternity. _

_ "Hermione? Would you do the honours?" Ezra asked, eyes brimming with unequivocal anxiety. _

_ A witch stepped forward, wiping a stray tear from her eyes. She then leapt forward to hug him _ _ —a strange sensation. Without a word, she stepped back, gingerly taking the proffered wand from the wizard beside her and holding it carefully in her two hands. With what could only be described as reverence, she stared down at the wand: vibrating, glimmering with power, black as death. _

_ Then, she gripped the wand in her right hand and held it up, pointing it straight at his nose. " _ Maneorum Ligula Obliviatus _ , Unspeakable Nehemiah _ . _ " _

It was as if he'd been punched in the stomach. It was all coming back to him now. The girl, Hermione Granger. The blond wizard —Ezra Rowe, now known only as Indigo 9733. The annullable Oblivation, designed to crumble upon exposure to a certain key phrase.

The memories surged in, trying to drown him; an unfiltered stream of emotions and images that pursued him relentlessly even as he tried to run away from them, or more accurately, stumble away from them. An attack on all fronts. He had nowhere to hide: not here, not in the top floor of Tower Indigo, in this vacant, eerie hallway over a thousand metres above the city below.

Nehemiah gasped as another memory struck him — 

_ "In you, I infuse my mind, heart, magic, and soul.  _ Ochi intepciani, suflare viata, sufletul libertashi, inima desanja! _ " _

_ A brilliant flash of light. Confusion. He found himself collapsed in a heap on the ground. _

_ "Rise, wizard," said a voice. A comforting voice, but nervous, too. _

_ "Where... where am I? Who am I...?" he asked. _

_ The other wizard laughed. "Where you are is of no importance. Who you are... Well, you are the key. You are the be-all and end-all. You are the saviour of this wretched world." _

That was his inception. His... call to action.

Ezra Rowe's plea.

These memories, they were like recordings of a stranger in his own body. But he knew, deep down... they were his. And they were real. He was certain of it.

Too many. There too many of them, too many thoughts, too many sights, smells, sounds —sensory overload. It rendered him nearly immobile; he could barely move, drag his feet forward. Hell, he could hardly even see. Couldn't think straight. The breaths he was taking became shallower and shallower; it was becoming ever more difficult to obtain the oxygen he needed. He was hyperventilating. Every step was painful, a stumbling block. If anyone saw him now—he could barely breathe...

_ "Have you chosen a name for yourself, Unspeakable?" asked the Magus, hood pulled low over his face in a manner disturbingly reminiscent of a Dementor. _

_ "I have. It shall be N _ _ —" _

_ "No," the Unspeakable Magus said, holding up a hand. "Do not tell me. That name is for you, and you alone." _

The air surrounding him was stale, damp, oppressive. Nehemiah's hood was pulled low, and his robes tight. It was too much! He frantically tugged at the collar of his robe, desperate to loosen its grip on him. He jerked his hood up, pulling it back and away from his head, revealing his pale, sweaty face; his dishevelled, grey hair; his pained, but sharp, green eyes.

He was nearing the transportation wing. Various guards, mostly Praesix, began to show up here and there, dotting the complicated maze of hallways zig-zagging this floor. As he staggered on, the guards more and more looked at him askance, staring as the unhooded Unspeakable Magus —clearly in a fit—passed them by. He ignored them. There were so many more important things on his mind.

He had to get out of there. He was imbalanced, physically, mentally. He needed air. He needed out.

_ "Just as Harry Potter's time came to an end, so does mine. As life closes one door through death _ _ —another opens through life." Ezra Rowe paused and regarded him with an inscrutable expression. "I always thought I was the one destined to  _ _ consummate this rebellion, but I was wrong. That burden lies with you. For now, all we can do is wait. _

_ "Tomorrow, the Ministry of Magic will experience upheaval the likes of which have never been seen before. For the first time in three decades, they will seek a new Unspeakable to join the Department of Mysteries. Thirteen Pillars there were, and thirteen shall there always be. You, my friend _ _ —you will become Unspeakable Nehemiah." _

A deep sob wracked his body; he stumbled, he fell to the floor. Tears gathered in his emerald eyes.

He had remembered. He had  _ remembered _ .

He was Nehemiah. He was Ezra Rowe.

He was Harry Potter.

Finally, he understood his true purpose. His history —his future. With a renewed sense of duty, he pushed himself to his feet, inhaled deeply, and pushed himself forward. Slowly, his fumbling steps turned into a determined, confident march.

Purpose. Yes, he would fulfil his purpose.

_ "Thirteen Pillars there were, and thirteen shall there always be. With the authority bestowed upon me as Unspeakable Magus, I hereby instate you as Unspeakable for the Department of Mysteries, thus satisfying the requirements set forth by Archmagus Seddon. Welcome, Unspeakable Thirteen." _

It was becoming increasingly difficult to focus, to pay attention to his surroundings, but he was nearly there. Finally Nehemiah reached the transportation gate and blinked down to the ground floor.

He mustn't stop —not to catch his breath, not to speak to the field commander nor the Minister who was trying to  grab his attention. He couldn't spare the time.

_ "You shall become trusted to the Ministry," said Ezra Rowe, his voice firm, but eyes wrought with emotion. "You will rise in the ranks of the Unspeakables. You shall become the Unspeakable Magus. _

_ "Oliver Sturch will likewise assume the title of Lord Marshal. He will be your enforcer, and more importantly, your only ally. _

_ "Together, you and the Lord Marshal will rise to the top of the Ministry _ _ —so that you may destroy it from the top down. You will see an end to this tyranny. _

_ "It will be ugly. It will be painful. The Ministry of Magic will tighten its grip on the people, squeezing the light of freedom from their hearts. People will lose their courage; their will to rebel; their hope. But then, only then, when all seems lost _ _ —when the Ministry believes they have enslaved the world in its entirety—that is when you will strike. You will execute the Minister, the Director, the Chief Warlock; and you will claim your rightful title as Minister for Magic. _

_ "You will bring light to this enslaved world, Nehemiah. You will bring freedom for your people." _

Nehemiah strode through the atrium of the Tower, head held high. He marched along the King's highway, not turning to the right or left, but instead keeping his eyes set straight ahead. With a mere flick of his hand, he flung open the ornate double doors and passed through the Tower's exit.

They were at the cusp of the war —the war for humanity. By this time tomorrow, the war will have ended.

Dawn was approaching. The King was in play.

#

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> I had thought about posting a detailed explanation of what's really going on in the story, but then I decided—what's the fun in that? I believe the story stands well enough on its own.
> 
> I am so grateful for your time in reading this fic, and all of the encouragement and reviews and kind words you all have given me. I had boatloads of fun writing this story, and it has turned into something I'm truly proud of, despite its many flaws as all stories are wont to have.
> 
> In the interest of transparency, I want to once again mention that I stole many influences and direct quotes from _1984_ and _Cloud Atlas_. Additionally, the entire concept of Indigo's true identity and his unreliable narration—was inspired by _The Usual Suspects_.
> 
> There will not be a sequel. However, I am working on some other projects which in all honesty probably won't see the light of day for several months at the very least.
> 
> Love,  
> HourlyLawyer


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